


Divided Loyalties

by servantofclio



Series: Val Shepard [3]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lazarus Project had taken two years of Miranda Lawson's life and had accomplished the impossible.</p>
<p>She didn't expect that working with the live Commander Shepard would prove to be her greatest challenge yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by an installment in my earlier alphabet series, "R is for Resurrection." Having tried to get into Miranda's head there, I found myself wondering how her attitude toward Shepard might evolve over the course of the events of ME2. It is the same Shepard as Life, Letter by Letter... simply a different POV.

Almost everything about Commander Shepard was right, and that gave Miranda a certain sense of satisfaction. The famous profile was intact, the gaze of the ocular implants was as sharp as the original organic eyes, she had the right height and athletic build (despite the extensive degradation of her skeleton and muscle tissue when the Lazarus Project began). She stood and crossed her arms over her chest and listened to Jacob and Miranda brief her with exactly the right tilt of the head and neutral expression. After two years of effort and experimentation, exhaustive research, wholesale invention of new procedures, and hours spent in reconstructive surgery, here she was. She should have been larger than life. Indeed, Miranda had observed the crew in the CIC casting her surreptitious looks, as if they couldn’t quite believe they were in the presence of the legend.

 

For good reason, since the legend had spent several months clinically dead.

 

As usual, though, Miranda found herself focusing on the little things that were wrong. The way the cybernetic implants hadn’t quite bonded properly with the organic tissues, for example, with the result that reddish fissures showed through the skin. It should have been satisfying to see Shepard dressed in the black and white uniforms that Cerberus had provided for the _Normandy_ crew, but the effect was subtly wrong, simply because Miranda was far more used to seeing the woman in combat armor or an Alliance uniform.

 

What was most unsettling was that Miranda couldn’t quite tell what lay behind the carefully flat expression. To her, of all people, Shepard should not be a closed book. She had, after all, spent the better part of two years learning all about her. Grade school report cards, the reports of the team that had rescued her from Mindoir, psych evals, commendations; she’d studied footage of every public appearance the woman had ever made, from the tour she’d made as a twenty-two-year-old war hero after the Blitz, her Star of Terra shining on her chest, to her Spectre initiation, to every press interview she’d done. She’d read all the reports from the mission to catch Arterius. Other Cerberus personnel had discreetly interviewed many of the surviving crew, and Miranda had read those transcripts, as well. She’d interviewed Moreau herself, even though putting up with his constant distractions had been tedious in the extreme. She should know everything she needed to know, but she couldn’t tell exactly what Shepard was thinking.

 

It left her very slightly off balance. Especially when Shepard was unexpectedly... agreeable. She clearly didn’t like the presence of the AI, shackled or not, which Miranda completely understood. She inspected the entire ship and its crew with a cool, measuring glance. She accepted Miranda’s advice that they should proceed to Omega and recruit Mordin Solus with no argument. Miranda had expected something... else, she supposed. Expected Shepard to make a show of her authority. She wasn’t sure whether or not to be glad that she hadn’t yet done so.

 

In the days it took them to get from the _Normandy_ ’s dock to Freedom’s Progress, and then to Omega, Shepard showed agitation only once.

 

“Miranda,” she said, her voice cold, “why is there a window over my bed?”

 

Miranda blinked, concealing her irritation. She hadn’t been privy to all the details of the ship’s design. “I can inquire—”

 

Shepard went on as if Miranda hadn’t responded. “Because it’s wonderful to have a view of the stars, as a general rule, but maybe not in the case of someone who was once _spaced._ ” The last word cracked like a whip. Miranda set her teeth.

 

“I’m sure the design was an oversight,” she said, sure of no such thing.

 

EDI piped up, “It may be possible to fit the viewport with a cover.”

 

“That would be appreciated,” said Shepard, her voice once again cool and neutral. She turned to go.

 

Miranda ventured, “Perhaps you might discuss the situation with Yeoman Chambers?”

 

Shepard paused. Her shoulders stiffened. “I’ll consider it.”

 

Aside from that, Shepard quickly established a shipboard routine. She met with Miranda daily to review the recruitment dossiers and discuss any personnel issues. According to EDI, she spent much of her free time familiarizing herself with the events of the previous two years. She had also met Dr. Chakwas for a physical examination, spent several hours in workouts, and had spoken to every member of the crew at least once.

 

“She appears to be establishing a regular routine of rounds,” the AI reported. “While she does not speak to each crew member daily, she speaks to each section head, and always spends extra time with Mr. Moreau, Dr. Chakwas, and Operative Taylor.”

 

“Hm. Thank you, EDI.” Miranda felt a little relieved. This behavior was well within observed behavioral paradigms. Interviews from _SSV Normandy_ crew members indicated that Shepard was unusually accessible to the crew. It was good that she was resuming her former routines. Perhaps she was simply accommodating herself to her new environment. Miranda could hardly complain if Shepard chose to do so without much fuss, after all, even if it left her waiting for the other combat boot to drop.

 

#

 

Omega, as usual, unsettled things.

 

Not at first. The mission to recruit Mordin Solus had gone as planned. Not precisely as planned—the dossier hadn’t mentioned the plague zone, of course—but EDI’s intelligence had been useful there. It had been a good test run, in fact, an opportunity for Shepard to shake off the rust after two years out of action. She had performed superbly, well within expected specifications; she and Miranda and Jacob had worked well together, in Miranda’s estimation; and Mordin Solus was now installed in the science lab. Miranda was not pleased that he had already disabled half of the surveillance devices, but she couldn’t say she was surprised. She _was_ a little bemused that he’d had the courtesy to bring the most expensive of the items back to her, presenting it politely and without comment before returning to the lab.

 

Miranda was in the process of compiling her report for the Illusive Man—a very satisfactory report, all in all—when Shepard appeared in her office door.

 

“Miranda, gear up. We’re headed back to Omega.”

 

“For?” she asked expectantly.

 

Shepard shot her a look, eyebrows pulled down. “I’d rather not wait on Archangel. There’s not much time to waste, if we can believe Aria.”

 

Miranda disliked leaving the report unfinished, but Shepard had a point, and she wasn’t about to let Shepard see her discomfiture. She rose smoothly to her feet. “Who’s our third?”

 

“Massani,” Shepard said. “We’ll see how well he’ll follow orders, and his experience with merc operations might be useful.”

 

Miranda nodded. It was a sound choice; she was rather curious to see the bounty hunter’s skills herself, to tell the truth, considering how much Cerberus was paying him.

 

The mission parameters left something to be desired. To reach their target, they’d have to get past the mercs without drawing Archangel’s fire. If Miranda had been leading the mission, she might have cut their losses at that point, but Shepard merely looked calculating. Miranda found herself devoting nearly as much attention to Shepard as to their surroundings. The commander explored the mercenary encampment apparently at random, and yet managed to ferret out a considerable quantity of intel, not to mention salvage and sabotage opportunities, as she did. She paused as they crossed behind the barricade at the end of the bridge, looking toward the balcony at the far end with narrowed eyes. Miranda followed her gaze, and made out a brief flash of blue. One of the mercenaries at the barricade fell, a hole between his eyes.

 

“Turian, I think,” Miranda ventured as Shepard moved on without comment.

 

Massani grunted. “We going to do anything around here, Shepard?”

 

“Hold your horses, Massani,” Shepard replied. “We’re still getting the lay of the land.”

 

Shepard chose their moment to turn on the mercenary coalition perfectly, waiting until they were halfway across the bridge to signal Miranda for an overload. It shorted out the electronics of the man setting explosives ahead of them, and Massani’s shot took his head off. The bounty hunter was every bit as skilled as advertised, and, once the action had started, followed Shepard’s lead without hesitation or complaint. The three of them made short work of the freelancers who had preceded them into Archangel’s base, while, as far as Miranda could tell, managing to avoid Archangel’s fire entirely. She supposed he must have realized they were allies rather than enemies; if he had failed to notice them at all, he would hardly be worth the effort of recruiting.

 

They pounded their way up the stairs, Shepard in the lead, still hearing the rhythmic crack of Archangel’s rifle. Shepard made a cursory check of the rest of the second level before approaching the balcony and pausing in the doorway. “Archangel?”

 

The turian raised a hand briefly. Miranda’s lips compressed. Arrogant, perhaps, or desperate, to leave his back turned to them. Shepard waited, however, while Archangel made one last shot before hauling himself to his feet. He moved stiffly, hampered by injury or fatigue, she presumed, and pulled his helmet off with one hand before settling heavily on a stack of crates, just out of line of sight from the window. “Shepard,” he said. “I thought you were dead.”

 

“Garrus!” Shepard exclaimed, stepping forward. Her arms lifted and paused, outstretched. “What are you doing here?”

 

Miranda had studied Shepard’s dossier and associates too long not to recognize the turian’s face as soon as he removed his helmet. Garrus Vakarian, formerly of C-Sec, missing since early in 2184. According to Moreau, he and Shepard had been close friends. Shepard’s body language and tone of voice supported that assessment. Miranda reviewed what she could recall from the turian’s file while the two talked. A C-Sec arrest record that was partially balanced by an impressive disciplinary record, with the black marks piling up extensively in the period between Shepard’s death and his abrupt resignation. Though Shepard’s AARs were typically terse and clinical, his name figured heavily in most of them. She’d also written a much more effusive commendation which had disappeared into the vaults of Council correspondence. Finding Vakarian here was unanticipated. If he could be persuaded to join them, however, he might be valuable for Shepard’s emotional stability, as well as a tactical asset.

 

Shepard laughed at something Vakarian said— _laughed_ —and Miranda, startled, took a closer look at her. There was still a bit of tension visible in the line of her neck and shoulders, but otherwise her demeanor was relaxed, a wide smile on her face, her eyes bright. Her eyes kept flicking back to the turian even as she spoke and surveyed their surroundings. Miranda wasn’t sure she was even aware of it. This was a side of her Miranda hadn’t seen before, even around Moreau; a far cry from the professional, but distant, commander she’d been since she boarded the _Normandy_.

 

What bothered Miranda more was that she hadn’t seen this side of Shepard in her files, either. _Accessible_ , her subordinates had called her, but this relaxed? In a combat situation that was still bordering on desperate? No. Miranda hoped that didn’t mean she had missed something.

 

As for Vakarian, he devoted most of his attention to Shepard, but he’d given both Miranda and Massani a searching look with those pale predator eyes, and glanced back at them from time to time. No matter how exhausted he was, Miranda doubted he’d missed much. He’d been a skilled detective, and he had to have developed a substantial streak of paranoia merely to have survived this long as a vigilante on Omega. He would bear watching, no matter how useful he might be.

 

Unfortunately, the situation did not permit her the leisure to weigh the potential costs and benefits properly.

 

Dividing the team was not a bad move, precisely, but it wasn’t the move Miranda would have made. She would have presumed that Archangel—Vakarian—could continue to hold the upper level, and that the team moving to the lower levels of the base would require maximum force and adaptability. That Shepard had chosen differently might speak of a streak of sentimentality on the commander’s part, something Miranda found concerning. Having made the decision to divide her forces, however, Shepard’s choice remained sound; Massani could join Vakarian at the sniper’s nest he’d established, or switch to assault rifle and cover the turian’s back, if necessary. Miranda’s skills supported Shepard’s and gave her options to cope with a variety of opposition.

 

As they headed down the stairs, Miranda considered, but couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Shepard, are you sure it’s wise to divide—”

 

Shepard cut her off with a single shake of her head. Her expression had settled back into combat concentration, but there was an extra furrow in her brow. “He’s been up there for days, Miranda. We’ve come all this way to get him out, I don’t want to lose him now to a stupid mistake.”

 

Though Shepard wasn’t looking at her, Miranda dipped her head. “Acknowledged, Commander.”

 

The fighting on the lower level was hard, though not more than Miranda and Shepard together could handle; their opposition was largely Blood Pack, so it was mostly varren and vorcha, with the occasional krogan. Both of them were using their biotics hard; Miranda thought she could feel her amp growing warm from the repeated use of warp. Over to her right, Shepard suddenly shouted. Miranda felt a slight… crackle, the tell-tale rush of a dark energy discharge, and Shepard appeared much further down the length of the passage. She took out the vorcha in that area with a few incendiary shotgun blasts and slammed the controls with the palm of her hand. The gate shut with a clang. Shepard shook herself and called out, “What the hell was that?” as she strode back toward Miranda’s position.

 

A successful test of the L5n implant. Miranda made a mental note to add to her report, saying, “I told you, Shepard. Experimental implants. That’s a very risky tactic, though.”

 

Shepard waved her off impatiently, heading back toward the junction of the three passageways, an almost feral grin spreading over her face. Then she tapped her comm. “One down, two to go. Garrus, Zaeed, you okay up there?”

 

“Holding,” Massani grunted.

 

“Only one, Shepard? Slow work. You’re slipping,” said Vakarian.

 

A crooked smile spread over her face. “I’ve been out of commission.”

 

The other two doors were easy, comparatively. As long as one didn’t mind hurdling over barricades and avoiding vorcha with flamethrowers. Since Shepard took the lead, Miranda’s task was to follow and support, bringing down their enemies’ defenses where she could, and together they made short work of the mercs.

 

It was after they returned to the upper level that all hell broke loose.

 

Miranda was posted at the top of the stairs while the rest of the team took out the Blue Suns coming in through the windows. The Suns finally seemed to be thinning out when she thought she heard shouting from the direction of the balcony, followed by the roar of a rocket blast.

 

“ _Garrus!_ ” Shepard’s shout was loud enough to make Miranda’s comm whine in protest. Sparing a glance downward, she dropped the last Suns trooper on the stairs with two shots from her pistol and bolted back toward the balcony.

 

The gunship. Shepard had killed the batarian mechanic—an act ruthless enough to surprise Miranda, but one she had approved of—but apparently the vehicle was operational. And Vakarian was down, Massani crouched behind a shredded piece of furniture, while Shepard had unslung the missile launcher. “Miranda,” she snapped. “Warp on my mark.”

 

Miranda slid into cover next to her. “Ready.”

 

“Mark.”

 

Miranda snapped upright and hit the gunship with the strongest warp field she could muster. Its armor buckled and cracked, and the engine stuttered. She dropped back down, Massani and Shepard rising in sync to hit the ship in its weak points.

 

Once they had it down, Shepard started toward Vakarian’s body. “Call the _Normandy_ , notify them—” She hesitated, her stride hitching. “See if you can get Chakwas on the line.”

 

Miranda activated her comm. “Joker? It’s Lawson. Patch me through to Dr. Chakwas, and have EDI send basic medical data on turians to my omni-tool.”

 

“Turians? What—”

 

“Just do it,” she said, in no mood for Moreau’s usual antics. “It’s an emergency. Also, we need a shuttle to our location ASAP, or have EDI scout the fastest route out of here.” She spoke in an undertone, watching Shepard.

 

Joker said, “If your location’s secure, we can get the shuttle to you in ten.”

 

She glanced around briefly. Massani was watching the lower level. “It’s secure.”

 

“Dispatching shuttle and patching you through to Chakwas.”

 

There was a lot of blood on the ground, shockingly blue. It looked like paint and had a sharp, metallic smell. Shepard had approached Vakarian’s body and dropped to one knee, heedless of the spreading pool of blood, but then she hesitated, her hand hovering over his shoulder.

 

“Garrus?” Her voice came out strained.

 

He drew a breath, wet and rasping. Blood in his throat, or his lungs, Miranda noted. A swift scan with her omni-tool, comparing to the baseline data EDI had sent her, showed his vitals shaky, blood pressure dropping, pulse irregular. He clutched at his rifle; Miranda wasn’t sure if it was a conscious movement or simply a spasm. She frowned at the readings on her omni-tool, and started to speak, but Massani beat her to it.

 

“He’s not going to make it.”

 

Shepard flared, suddenly wreathed in dark energy, and glared up at Massani with teeth bared, her eyes so wide the whites showed all the way around the iris. “Shut up,” she growled, “and give me all the medi-gel you’ve got.”

 

He complied, with a sour expression, but he kept his mouth shut. Miranda gestured at him to keep watch. He gave both her and Shepard a dismissive look, but did as instructed.

 

“Ms. Lawson?” came Dr. Chakwas’s voice in her ear. “What’s the situation?”

 

“We have a turian male with significant trauma to the head—are you getting the data from my omni-tool?”

 

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed.

 

“Let me talk to her,” said Shepard. She’d damped the flare, and now knelt with one hand on Vakarian’s armored shoulder, her expression tight.

 

Miranda redirected the comm line. “Shuttle arrival in six, Shepard,” she said.

 

Shepard nodded, speaking quietly into the comm without taking her eyes from the turian. “It’s Garrus. Yeah. A rocket. I don’t—” She took a deep breath. Too controlled to be a sob, but nearly on the edge. “Okay. Yes. The bleeding’s slowed, but not stopped.”

 

Miranda took a step back, considering. Vakarian’s vitals were stabilizing somewhat, but could hardly be called good. Shepard was more agitated than Miranda would have expected. None of the crew reports from the previous mission indicated a reaction like this to the deaths of Richard Jenkins or Ashley Williams. Perhaps it was that Vakarian wasn’t yet dead; perhaps it was a reaction to the isolation of her environment. Miranda knew perfectly well that was a strain. It was designed to be. Her lips pursed. In a way, this might be the best possible outcome; Vakarian might be sufficiently disabled to prevent any interference with ground missions, but still able to provide tactical advice and psychological support to the commander.

 

Assuming he actually survived, that was. She was concerned how Shepard might react if he didn’t.

 

Mercifully, the shuttle arrived only moments later.

 

#

 

Shepard stayed in crisis mode, firm and controlled, though pale, until Drs. Chakwas and Solus took charge of their patient and the medbay door closed behind them. Then she stopped in her tracks and stared at the unrevealing door, her arms falling slack to her sides.

 

Miranda waited, unsure whether to approach; Shepard showed no signs of moving, so after a few minutes she said, cautiously, “Commander?”

 

Shepard blinked and turned toward her. “Miranda.” She swiped a hand across her forehead, leaving an indigo streak, and paled as she looked at her blood-smeared gauntlets. “Can we postpone the debrief? I need to clean up.”

 

Miranda considered saying a number of things. Some comfort or reassurance about the doctors’ abilities, perhaps; but she did not believe in offering false hope, and the turian’s condition looked bad even with their excellent medical team. There was also a good chance Shepard would see any such comment as presumptuous. She settled for saying, “Of course, Shepard.”

 

Shepard replied with a jerky nod before she headed for the elevator. Miranda watched her go, considering, before returning to her office.

 

“EDI.”

 

“Yes, Operative Lawson?”

 

“Is Shepard in her quarters?”

 

“Yes, Operative Lawson.”

 

“Please inform me if she shows any unusual behaviors.”

 

There was a pause. “Commander Shepard has issued orders that I am not to inform anyone of what happens in her quarters without her permission. I am afraid her orders supersede yours, Operative Lawson.”

 

Miranda ground her teeth. There were emergency protocols in place that would allow EDI to override such orders—but only if Shepard proved to be a danger to herself. She would have to be content with that. “Very well, EDI.”

 

“Logging you out.”

 

Frowning, Miranda settled down to finish both her mission reports.

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

It developed over the next few hours that Vakarian would survive.

 

He survived the initial surgery, at least. Dr. Chakwas’s preliminary report described extensive and creative reconstruction of the right side of his face, though after the Lazarus Project, it took a great deal more than that for Miranda to be impressed. Dr. Chakwas also cautioned that there was still risk of infection and implant rejection, and she was keeping the turian largely sedated for perhaps a day while the grafts and cybernetics did their initial bonding. Miranda asked the doctor to send her updates as the patient progressed and regained consciousness. In the meantime, she reviewed all the information on Vakarian she could get her hands on. What she found gave her a sense of how the turian might best be utilized in the _Normandy_ ’s crew, but also gave her concerns. He had a long record of being unpredictable and insubordinate—by turian standards, at least. Shepard, however, had had nothing but praise for him, and his conduct on the SR-1 had apparently been exemplary, including surprisingly good relations with the rest of the crew. He’d clearly fit in well with Shepard’s _modus operandi_. Still, Miranda thought he might be a disruptive element in the delicate chemistry of _this_ crew. Though nominally humanity’s allies, turians typically had a rivalry with humans. Vakarian’s military and police experience were potentially useful, and yet at odds with both Cerberus and Alliance protocols. Beyond that, Miranda couldn’t be certain that he’d stay with the crew, especially taking into account his species and Cerberus’s record... and what would _that_ do to Shepard’s mood? Her demeanor had changed so drastically on Omega once she recognized him, and again when he was injured. After delivering him to the medical team, Shepard had eventually emerged from her quarters cleaned up but still noticeably tense, and it didn’t appear that she had slept at all well. She’d visited the medbay as soon as she and Miranda finished debriefing, and she emerged a short time later with her lips pressed together and her entire posture tight.

 

In the draft of her mission report to the Illusive Man, currently occupying her terminal screen, Miranda had cautiously outlined her concerns. Vakarian had the potential to be either a stabilizing force on Shepard, or a very destabilizing one. It remained to be seen, too, how well he would recover from his injuries. Miranda frowned at the screen. At one point, before Shepard was revived, she had hoped to locate the turian. His disappearance had been annoying. Now, though... as much as possible, she liked to control the variables surrounding her, and the turian was a significant one. She needed to speak to Vakarian herself, Miranda concluded. Preferably before Shepard did, so she could be the one to brief him on the mission, and so she could assess his reactions without Shepard’s interference.

 

#

 

“Well, Dr. Chakwas, how’s our patient?”

 

It was an unfamiliar voice, female, presumably human. No, wait—slightly familiar. A woman had been with Shepard on Omega. Long dark hair, wearing the Cerberus emblem. From his bed in medbay, Garrus kept his eyes shut and listened.

 

“Garrus is recovering well,” said Dr. Chakwas. “The cybernetics are integrating beautifully.”

 

The right side of his head throbbed as she spoke. Pain was still a great improvement on the hollow numbness he’d felt the first time he woke up—he wasn’t sure how long before.

 

He’d come awake and opened his eyes blearily, taking in that he was somewhere clean and white—so probably not Omega—and that his head had a floaty not-quite-there quality.

 

“There you are,” a familiar voice had said. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

 

Garrus had blinked, befuddled, at the gray-haired human in front of him. He recognized her at once, but it seemed dream-like, not real. For one thing, the sound felt... wrong. Much louder on his left than on his right. Maybe he was hallucinating the _Normandy_. Or maybe he’d never left the _Normandy_ , which meant that everything since then hadn’t... that thought gave him an odd combination of relief and panic. “Doc—” he started to say, but pain slashed through the right side of his jaw and head as he spoke.

 

Well, crap. That was definitely real. And now that he thought about it, he became aware of a number of dull aches elsewhere in his body. Which probably meant that some of the less pleasant portions of his memories were also real.

 

“Don’t try to talk,” Dr. Chakwas was saying, in her familiar calm, firm tone. “You’ve been very seriously injured. You were struck with a missile.”

 

Damn. Now he _remembered_. The gunship. Again. Coming around for a second try. Dr. Chakwas was still talking, describing the extent of his injuries—something about _synthetic aural implant_ and _cybernetic augmentation to damaged nerve and muscle fibers_ —but Garrus was only half listening. Ha, half listening. Memory came back to him in a rush: the roar of the gunship’s engines and that ass Tarak’s taunting, the artificial alertness brought about by stim use, on top of the deep fatigue from fighting alone for days—

 

—except he hadn’t been alone when the gunship came back, he’d been with—

 

“Shep-” he got out, pressing past the lancing pain.

 

“Shepard’s fine,” said Dr. Chakwas with authority.

 

“Nuh,” he said. “Deh.” He swallowed, steeling himself for what he knew was going to hurt, and enunciated carefully: “Dead.”

 

Dr. Chakwas drew closer, shaking her head. She checked the monitors beside his bed and then settled herself in the chair, meeting his eyes calmly. “She’s not. She’s here.” She allowed herself a small smile. “She’d be _right_ here, in fact, but she was fidgeting so much I wouldn’t let her stay. She’s quite worried about you.”

 

Shepard. Worried. About him. He could remember, just, the sound of her voice shouting his name. He could remember, a little more vividly, the look on her face when she recognized him. All the wrong scars on her face, but the smile was hers, her lips spreading wide, arms flung open, eyes shining. She’d looked so happy to see him, and he...

 

... he’d fucked up. Badly, this time, badly enough to lose the entire team. The sense of failure, the memory of the stench of blood and death, rose up and seemed to lodge in his throat and gut. The room tilted, and he closed his eyes against the vertigo. Shepard had bailed him out again. Lucky him. At least that meant he had the chance to put things right, to find Sidonis and make him pay.

 

Garrus realized he was making a harsh, discordant sound in his throat, while Dr. Chakwas was still watching him steadily. He shook his head. That hurt, too. Everything was starting to feel blurred around the edges, but he knew Shepard wasn’t supposed to be alive. He started to ask _How?_ and winced.

 

“I told you not to talk,” Dr. Chakwas said. “You need to let your jaw heal and allow the cybernetics to integrate with your nervous system. Once that happens, you should be able to speak normally. You should have normal motor function in your right arm and shoulder, too, although we’ll need to monitor that for a while.”

 

Garrus nodded, even though the motion made his neck ache. Dr. Chakwas frowned at him. “Stop moving around,” she said, and then sighed. “I suppose you’d like an explanation. It appears that Shepard’s body was recovered and... revived... by Cerberus.”

 

Damn it. He knew he’d recognized that emblem, he’d just been too tired to place it. He hissed and tried to sit up, only to find the doctor pushing him firmly back down into the bed. “None of that,” she said. “She’s not in immediate danger, and neither are you. They’ve asked her to take on a mission; there are colonies going missing.”

 

He knew Shepard well enough to know that would be a call she couldn’t resist, regardless of Cerberus’s history. Everything seemed more fuzzy now, and Dr. Chakwas’s voice sounded hollow as she kept talking, the words indistinct, and he closed his eyes.

 

He had woken up another time or two since then, let the doctor do her tests and continue explaining to him, in a low voice, what the situation was. It was a lot to take in. He had yet to see Shepard. Dr. Chakwas said she’d stopped by, but only when he was asleep. As if she were a dream, or a mirage.

 

And now this stranger was here, asking Dr. Chakwas questions.

 

“Can I speak to him?”

 

The doctor took a moment to respond. “Briefly,” she said. “If he’s awake.”

 

Footsteps approached, clicking against the deck. Garrus considered feigning sleep, but reasoned that he might learn more by talking with the woman. He opened his eyes when the footsteps stopped.

 

She was tall and composed, long dark hair falling over her shoulders in smooth waves. Shepard always wore hers up, he found himself thinking, irrelevantly. He couldn’t read much from this woman’s expression, though her eyes were sharp.

 

“Garrus Vakarian,” she said. “We’d been looking for you.”

 

“You mean Cerberus,” he replied, pleased that the words came out clearly, with only a little pain at the hinge of his jaw and mandible. Whatever Chakwas was giving him was good.

 

She nodded once. “You’re a hard man to locate. We didn’t realize you were Archangel.”

 

Garrus wondered why this was the first thing she thought he should know. “That was the idea,” he said.

 

The corners of her mouth turned up, just a little. “I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Miranda Lawson. I’m the Executive Officer here on the _Normandy_.”

 

He looked up at the white ceiling, remembering Pressly. The veteran officer hadn’t given his respect lightly to the non-human crew, but he’d given it, in the end. An honorable man. “The _Normandy_.”

 

“Shepard’s choice of a name. Cerberus built the ship, making some improvements on the SR-1’s design.”

 

Garrus’s estimation of Cerberus’s resources went up a few notches. Top-of-the-line warships, even frigates, were not cheap, and the _Normandy_ ’s specialized stealth features sent the cost higher. He noted Lawson’s words, too. How many choices had Shepard been given? Little things, maybe, like naming ships, and not anything that mattered. Anger coiled inside him, but he kept it leashed. Controlled. He might not be in enemy hands, but he wasn’t entirely in friendly hands, either. Best to keep control, watch and listen, and learn something. Humans often complained that they had trouble reading turians; he could use that to his advantage. He gave Lawson his blandest expression. “Cerberus must have invested a lot in this mission.”

 

“Indeed.” She regarded him coolly. “I’d like to give you a briefing on the mission, if you have time.”

 

A dry laugh escaped him. What else, exactly, did he have to do with his time at the moment? “Fire away,” he said.

 

Unlike Dr. Chakwas, Lawson remained standing, forcing him to look up. He recognized the ploy: she was establishing herself as an authority. Garrus was certain that, if he were on his feet, he’d be the taller, reversing their positions. “Human colonies have been disappearing,” she said. “Buildings and objects remain, but the populations vanish. The Council won’t respond because the settlements are in the Terminus Systems.”

 

Garrus nodded. He might have spent most of the last two years on Omega, but the colony disappearances had been news, and he hadn’t forgotten galactic politics. It wasn’t as if the Council had changed much, in spite of all the councilors being new. “And the Alliance?”

 

Her brows drew together, and her shoulders rose and fell. “If they are taking any measures, they’ve been ineffective. We believe the disappearances are connected to the Reapers.”

 

“We meaning Cerberus.”

 

“That’s correct.”

 

“What does Shepard think?” he asked, idly flexing his right hand. Chakwas had warned him that manual dexterity might be compromised for a time, but it felt all right.

 

“You’d have to ask her that,” Lawson replied.

 

“I intend to.”

 

He watched her closely, wishing he had the additional data from his visor. Lawson smiled slightly. “We do have evidence, from the most recent colony disappearance, that Collectors are involved.”

 

Garrus had to fight to control his expression at that one. “Collectors,” he said, knowing his voice resonated with disbelief and wondering if Lawson could tell.

 

She gave him a sharp nod. “That’s correct. They appeared to be disabling and abducting the colonists.”

 

“What would Collectors want with so many humans?”

 

“That’s what we mean to find out,” Lawson returned coolly. She appeared completely serious. “I can make the video footage available to you, if you wish to review it. I assure you, you’ll find no signs of tampering on our part.”

 

Garrus nodded slowly. “I see.” He did. Unwillingly, he could see how this was going to go. Missing human colonists; the Council refusing to see beyond the confines of the Citadel, as usual; Cerberus, a self-proclaimed mouthpiece for humanity, investigating. Shepard in the middle, and, if he knew her at all... if it really and truly _was_ her... she wouldn’t turn her back on this.

 

Lawson continued, “We’d like to hire you for the duration of the mission. Details of the contract will be sent to your omni-tool.”

 

He wanted to laugh. A contract, as if this were a regular sort of transaction. As if chasing down the Collectors wasn’t likely to be a one-way trip. He said, “Didn’t know Cerberus was in the habit of hiring turians.”

 

“We’re not,” Lawson said, “but Shepard is certainly in the habit of working with turians. Specifically, of working with you. You would, of course, report directly to Shepard as your commanding officer.”

 

“Of course,” he said, matching her matter-of-fact tone. “And what would be my duties?”

 

“That would be at the Commander’s discretion,” she said. “She selects her own ground team. As far as shipboard duties go, the ship is in need of a gunnery officer, and your service record appears to fit the bill, so that would be my recommendation as Executive Officer. Any combat duties would have to be medically cleared, of course.”

 

They both looked at Dr. Chakwas, who was ostensibly working at her desk, her back to them, but who could hardly avoid hearing the conversation. Garrus turned his attention back to Lawson and said, “I’d like to discuss that with Shepard.”

 

She nodded. “Of course. And I’ll leave you to your recovery now.”

 

Garrus stared at the ceiling again as the sharp sound of her heels on the floor retreated, and the door whooshed open and shut. In the quiet left by Lawson’s absence, he considered.

 

He still hadn’t ruled out the possibility that it wasn’t really Shepard. He remembered the sense of conviction he’d had back on Omega, but... he knew he’d been too exhausted then for his judgment to be entirely trustworthy. _As if his judgment was ever one to rely on_ , said a little voice in the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. If it wasn’t really Shepard, he needed to do something about it. And if it _was_...

 

It took an effort, but Garrus levered himself up and set his feet on the floor. He waited while his head swam. No worse than any other occasion when he’d been prone for a while, really. It cleared after a moment, and he pushed himself upright.

 

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Chakwas asked.

 

Garrus stretched, cautiously, taking a few steps to test out his limbs. Everything worked, more or less, though there was a dull ache on his right side that was probably going to blossom into something much worse when the painkillers wore off. “I need to talk to Shepard.”

 

“I can ask her to come here.”

 

Looking around, he located his gear, stacked in the corner of the room. Cleaned, even, although still pitted and scorched, and that was a hell of a hole in the cowl armor, wasn’t it? “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather report to my commanding officer on my feet and ready for action.” He slipped the visor into place as he spoke and keyed it on, relieved as the familiar interface sprang to life. It seemed undamaged; good.

 

He heard a rustle as the doctor moved behind him. “I have to recommend against your leaving this sickbay. I would rather keep you here for at least another 24 hours of observation. And then you’ll be released to _light_ duty only. No combat.”

 

Garrus donned his armor anyway, piece by piece. The routine was so well-known that his hands did it automatically, and the familiar actions soothed the knot of tension in his gut. “Come on, doc. Do you really want to send her out there with nothing but Cerberus back-up?” Lawson, he was certain, was trying to figure out how to make use of him, but would be much happier if he were stuck shipside. There was no way he was going to let that happen.

 

He settled the last piece of armor into place and turned. Dr. Chakwas regarded him with her lips tight and her brow creased. He looked at her, searching for the right words that would make her see what was so clear to him: that he needed to be free to move, to act, to help Shepard however she needed it.

 

He didn’t know what she saw on his face, but her expression shifted, and she held out a vial. “Fine. Take these as needed for the pain. Not more than every two hours. And you _will_ check in with me every six hours, or this agreement of ours is canceled.”

 

It was a small price to pay. He took the bottle from her and slid it into a compartment, managing a painful, uneven smile. “Thanks, doc.”

 

“You owe me,” she said as he headed toward the door.

 

“I do,” he agreed, and hesitated as the door opened. “Ah... where am I going?”

 

A small blue sphere sprang into existence near the door, and a synthesized voice said, “Commander Shepard is in the briefing room—”

 

“Thank you, EDI,” said Dr. Chakwas. “That will be all.”

 

“Ship’s VI?”

 

“AI. I already told you that, Garrus.”

 

“Right. I forgot.” He remembered now; he just hadn’t been entirely with it _then_. “And the briefing room is where?”

 

Dr. Chakwas gave him directions with a close look. He was fine, though. He was sure of it. He was fine and he needed to see Shepard for himself and hear from _her_ mouth what she thought was going on.

 

He passed through the ship, feigning confidence. The place was too bright and full of an AI, and crewed by humans in black and white who eyed him as he went by, some of them surreptitiously, some of them gawking openly. He noted everything he could, scanned and recorded the walk with his visor for further assessment later, the kind of habit he’d developed on Omega.

 

He didn’t relax, not really, until he’d reached the briefing room and saw Shepard, saw her face light up—again—with that brilliant smile. For him. He _shouldn’t_ relax, not on a Cerberus ship with a crew of unknowns. But face to face with Shepard, her smile wide and her eyes shining, he couldn’t help but feel calmer. Lighter. Something in his chest that had been tight and knotted for a long time—maybe years—seemed to loosen. He ought to be more suspicious of her, probably, but her presence disarmed him. The look of her, the way her stance relaxed when she saw him, the biometric data his visor supplied, the sound and scent and presence of her, the indefinable and indomitable aura she carried with her, in combat or out of it—it added up too well, and he couldn’t believe her to be anything but genuine. And if she was genuine, if she was here, she had to have reasons, and the least he could do was to hear her out.

 

They traded jokes. He listened to her laugh and watched her face grow serious as she spoke about the mission. She wasn’t discounting the Cerberus risk, at least, and that, too, eased him. He was in, he knew it, and he told her so, passing it off as another joke, the words coming out almost before he’d made the conscious decision.

 

The AI popped up again as Garrus departed, directing him to the forward battery with no further comment. He took a deep breath as the doors shut behind him, confronting familiar machinery, and called up the schematics on the console. Better than the first _Normandy_ ’s armaments, but maybe not good enough. He frowned, ignoring the dull twinge on his right side, and made some notes. He knew that he was distracting himself. If he sunk himself into this project, he didn’t have to think about the mess he’d left behind on Omega. The one he’d made. Damn, had he really called his father from his holdout? He should call him back, say he was all right. And Solana, too. And he should call some contacts, try to track down Lantar Sidonis. And then...

 

His hand shook as he made the note. Not now; he wasn’t ready to think about any of it yet. He returned his attention to the cannon: a clean, mechanical problem, one that had an optimum solution. He only had to find it.

 

#

 

Miranda reflected on her conversation with the turian as she returned to her office. The rocket blast didn’t seem to have damaged his mental faculties, at least. He asked sensible questions, and he was clearly listening and taking in information carefully. He wasn’t stupid; his record spoke clearly of intelligence and good tactical sense, and her observation of him on Omega confirmed that. Foolishly idealistic, possibly a touch naive, but not stupid.

 

He’d let himself get boxed in, though. Miranda would have expected a turian to attempt to escape, perhaps planting explosives in the base and luring his enemies in while he made his getaway. The fact that he’d allowed himself to be cornered, as he had, was disquieting, speaking of some degree of emotional dysfunction. Perhaps he had not been thinking clearly after losing his team, but she did not view that as an entirely adequate excuse. She’d have to advise Chambers to keep an eye on him. She had little doubt that Dr. Chakwas and Shepard would both be doing the same.

 

It was more difficult to read his reactions. Turians’ rigid, mask-like faces didn’t easily betray emotions as human faces might, and Miranda was sure Vakarian had deliberately kept himself under tight control. She couldn’t be sure what he was thinking. Nonetheless, he was appearing to be a good deal more cooperative than she’d expected. He’d hardly balked at the mention of Cerberus, and appeared inclined to join the mission. That was a positive development, on the whole; Miranda thought Shepard would function better with him available, even if only as a confidant. He was still something of an unpredictable element, however. His actions on Omega certainly gave evidence of recklessness, but perhaps his loyalty to Shepard would keep him in line. It would presumably be some time before he’d be cleared for active duty, in any case.

 

Dr. Chakwas’s recommendation came to Miranda’s terminal less than half an hour later, though, much to her surprise. Her own observation had suggested that the turian, while lucid, was not nearly in combat-ready condition. She called the doctor to her office.

 

“You cleared Vakarian for field duty starting tomorrow?”

 

Dr. Chakwas looked back at her calmly, unblinking. “I did.”

 

“Are you sure that’s wise? By your own report, he was in major surgery less than a day ago.”

 

The doctor raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. “Are you questioning my medical judgment, Miranda?”

 

Her tone was forbidding, but Miranda had no intention of allowing the older woman to intimidate her. “An impaired operative is a risk to the entire team, as you well know, doctor.”

 

“Turians are made of tougher stuff than humans.” Dr. Chakwas crossed her arms. “I will be continuing to monitor Garrus’s condition, of course, to make sure no complications from the surgery or the augmentation process arise, but he should be fully fit for combat within twenty-four hours. I’ve released him to shipboard duty until that time. In fact, I believe he’s already working at the gunnery emplacement, as you suggested.”

 

Miranda narrowed her eyes. Dr. Chakwas’s return gaze was perfectly placid. Her face gave nothing away.

 

Miranda wondered briefly if she could get Mordin to render a second opinion. She dismissed the notion almost immediately, however. There was little point in sowing dissension between the chief medical officer and the chief scientist, and she didn’t want to distract the salarian from his research into Collector tech. “Very well. Thank you for your time, doctor.”

 

She could only hope whatever game they were playing, likely out of loyalty or misplaced paranoia, wouldn’t put Shepard, or the mission, at risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with Second Chances, the next update probably won't appear for at least two weeks, as I'll be out of town.
> 
> If some of this text looks familiar, Garrus's portion of this chapter appeared as a short story on my tumblr under the title "Rude Awakening." It's been somewhat revised here.


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe an hour or two after he saw her in the briefing room, Shepard came down to the battery. “Hey, Garrus. You got a minute?”

 

Garrus turned around, startled by the scrape of the door opening. “Yeah. Of course. Just getting familiar with the systems.”

 

She smiled, the kind that didn’t show any teeth, sat down on the crate of supplies, and talked. She explained the mission to him all over again. Garrus listened, head tilted to one side, still getting used to the way the synthetic implant on his right side filtered sound. He listened and compared the three versions of this story he’d heard: what Chakwas had said vs. what Lawson had said vs. what Shepard was saying now. Preposterous as the whole story was, with its Collectors and shadowy organizations and multi-billion-credit resurrection projects, the pieces all added up. That wasn’t to say there wasn’t something being held back, especially on Lawson’s end, but it was a consistent story. Shepard was telling the truth, he concluded, or at least, what she thought was true. She wasn’t going into this entirely naively, either; she seemed aware that Cerberus was manipulating the situation, and probably her. He wasn’t quite sure how he fit into that picture.

 

Garrus frowned as Shepard confessed her uncertainty. “The Illusive Man said it was up to me whether to take on the mission, but I don’t know that I believe him. Four billion credits they supposedly spent on me, who knows how much on the ship and the crew, and then... what? If I say no, I won’t do it, they just drop me off on the Citadel? I doubt it.”

 

He felt a surge of anger and curled his hand into a fist to keep it from shaking. “Shepard, if you want to jump ship, we’ll find a way.”

 

She started for a second. Her smile and her eyes both grew wider, even though she was already shaking her head. “Not yet. If it’s true that the Collectors are taking the colonists, I need to know if there really is a Reaper connection. I need to see it through.”

 

“I can understand that.” He hesitated. The next subject he wasn’t sure if he should bring up at all, but it seemed stranger to leave it unsaid. He’d said it when he first saw her: _I thought you were dead_. They hadn’t followed up. “Shepard, you’ve talked a lot about the mission, but what about you? The reports said...” The words died. He’d heard Joker’s version of events, and Kaidan’s, and gone over the other reports, creating for himself a brutal picture of what must have happened.

 

Her smile abruptly died. She seemed to draw in on herself, her shoulders hunched and her arms folded across her chest. “That I was spaced? Yeah. I remember the explosion.”

 

Garrus stared at her, shocked, a curse slipping out of his mouth without thought. Shepard went on, “My O2 line was damaged. It... vented pretty quickly.”

 

“I’m sorry I asked,” he said, damning himself for his thoughtlessness. Maybe the painkillers had left him not entirely clear-headed, after all, or maybe he simply hadn’t expected her to _remember_.

 

“It’s all right,” she said quicky, as if she were trying to reassure _him_. “The next thing I remember is waking up in the lab. That was just a few days ago. I know it sounds ridiculous to say they brought me back from the dead, but... I think I was in pretty bad shape. I don’t remember...”

 

Her gaze was distant and troubled, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. He sought something to say to shake her out of whatever bad memory. “You’re here now.” She blinked and refocused on him as he continued, “You’re alive now. The rest of it doesn’t matter.”

 

His voice was a little too loud. She blinked a couple more times as the echo died. She was looking straight at him now, and he stared back, as if he could keep her from sliding away through force of will. “Thanks, Garrus,” she said, and stood, rolling her shoulders. “So, we’ll cut the Cerberus leash eventually, but for now we’ll play along, if you’re up for the ride.”

 

He relaxed now that she seemed more like herself again. “Hey, I was promised a walk into hell. You’d better not disappoint, Shepard.”

 

She gave him another smile. “Never. I’ll let you get back to work for now, though.”

 

Garrus turned back to the console once Shepard had left, but he paused for a moment to consider before returning to work. She looked so... pleased to see him. Happy with the meager bits of reassurance he could give her. It made him feel twitchy. Obviously, if it meant that much to her to have him stay, there was no question. He wasn’t going to repeat his mistake and turn his back. If anything happened to her as a result, he’d never forgive himself.

 

No, he wasn’t walking away. Chances were, none of them were walking away at the end of this mission, either. Maybe Shepard would find a way, somehow, but... whatever happened, he needed not to screw this up. He’d be damned if he let Shepard down.

 

It didn’t take long to slip into a routine. He checked in with Chakwas as instructed, enduring her prodding. Apparently his injuries were healing well, at least. He checked the battery for bugs, and put out some feelers with contacts about Sidonis and a couple of other matters that Shepard asked him to look into. She stopped by a couple of times a day. They talked about the ship’s armaments; his contact in Hierarchy weapons development got back to him remarkably quickly, and even agreed to slip him plans for a cannon that made him feel a _lot_ better about the prospect taking on a Collector ship. Shepard coaxed him into talking about his team, too. Garrus knew he’d promised to tell her the whole story, back at the base, but now that he was here on the _Normandy_ , he found himself holding the details close. Shepard listened with a calm, open gaze, but even that seemed able to lay him bare. Who they’d all been, what they’d done together... those were things he wasn’t ready to submit to another’s judgment. Being on the ship itself made Omega seem a little blurry around the edges, like some kind of fever dream. She didn’t push, at least. Much.

 

Shepard called him out for a couple of minor missions, too. It was... comfortable, familiar to fall into his old place watching her back, picking off the enemies at her flank as she pushed ahead. A bit of a relief, even, to let her take the lead and make the judgment calls; even a pleasure to come back from a job well done, with Shepard laughing and smiling and slapping him on the shoulder.

 

He didn’t relax entirely. He knew by now not to let his guard down. But the Cerberus crew mostly left him alone, even Lawson, and Shepard kept stopping by with a smile, and he found he could breathe a little easier, after all.

 

#

 

After they left Omega, Miranda kept an eye out for dissension within the crew. Any of the new arrivals—Massani, Mordin, or Vakarian—might cause disruptions or difficulties.

 

Matters went rather better than she’d expected, though. Each settled in to his place. Massani seemed content to camp out on the lower level, leaving the engineering crew alone and emerging mostly for meals. The salarian and the turian, similarly, staked out their spaces and largely stayed there. Salarians, she knew, slept little; she’d installed a cot in the science lab, which seemed to suffice for Mordin’s needs. Vakarian, too, requested a cot to be placed in the battery. Miranda was perfectly content to provide it. The bunks and pods that the human crew slept in were not really designed for his physiology. Besides that, though there hadn’t been any complaints about his presence, there was a good chance most of the crew would prefer not to sleep in proximity to a turian. Keeping him separate might prevent a bevy of future problems.

 

She waited, therefore, for something to happen. The only thing that did was that Mordin entered her office during the day shift, presented her with a small electronic device, and left while she was still drawing breath to ask what he was doing. She took a closer look at the object and frowned. It was a Cerberus-issued surveillance device, one of the better variety. A quick check revealed that he’d disabled all of the other surveillance in the science lab. Vakarian seemed to have removed everything from the main battery, as well, and he was probably the one who’d gone through Shepard’s quarters, too.

 

So that was how it was going to be. Miranda had been waiting for someone to make a move, and apparently this was it. She could replace the devices, of course, but they could remove the new ones just as easily. Perhaps, for now, she should let it go, and see how matters developed.

 

What was more irritating was that Shepard had given EDI orders not to report anything she considered a private conversation, and had herself supplied EDI with her definition of “private.” Miranda had already sent a request to EDI’s programmers to have the commands overriden—surely it had been an oversight that kept her from freely accessing the AI’s cameras and audio pickups—but she had yet to receive a response. She certainly did not expect to have her hand held, but she did not like the sense that her reports and recommendations were disappearing into a void.

 

Miranda fired off another crisply worded message and went on with her day. As usual, she finished her morning workout routine and arrived in the mess hall early enough to avoid most of the pre-day-shift traffic there. She needed to eat a lot to sustain her biotic’s metabolism, and her experience was that most subordinates were taken aback by the sight of her consuming the quantities of calories she required. She disliked the stares and the whispered comments about how she kept her figure.

 

She had no sooner seated herself, however, than Vakarian emerged from the battery. Miranda eyed him covertly as he strode down the corridor. He paused for a bare second on seeing her and spared her a nod before rummaging through the galley for his own packaged rations.

 

She had not seen much of him in the few days since he’d been aboard. He’d emerged for a few minor missions—he already seemed to be a fixture on Shepard’s ground team—and for the occasional meal. He seemed to keep odd hours, and Miranda wasn’t quite sure if it was a normal turian sleep cycle, or if he was being affected by his injuries. He was moving easily enough, however, and all of the after-action reports, from Shepard, Jacob, and Massani, indicated him to be fully capable. Shepard’s reports, in fact, were bluntly honest; she’d even truthfully admitted to sending sensitive Cerberus data to the Alliance. Perhaps she had decided there was no point in concealing that truth, since EDI was aware of it. EDI had also copied the data to Cerberus before sending it as Shepard ordered, but there was no reason to inform Shepard of that.

 

Shepard did appear to prefer having the turian on her ground team, but that was understandable, since they’d worked together before. Miranda rather wished Shepard would make more use of the other personnel available—including herself—but it was important to give the commander her operational autonomy. She eyed Vakarian curiously as he moved about the galley.

 

“How are you settling in?” Miranda inquired.

 

Vakarian stopped short on being addressed, and gave her an inscrutable look through his ever-present visor. “Can’t complain. Except about the rations, I suppose.”

 

“Put a request in with Gardner. We can acquire better supplies if there’s anything you need.”

 

His mandibles flared out once. “Hadn’t expected you to care.”

 

“I want all mission personnel to be performing optimally.” Miranda took a bite of her reconstituted eggs. Not comparable to fresh, sadly, but adequate for her needs. “Creature comforts are a small price to pay.”

 

“Hm.” The turian took a seat at her table, with a kind of cautious precision, and cracked open his rations.

 

They ate in silence for a few minutes, not quite companionable. Vakarian’s posture was casual enough, and he appeared focused on his meal rather than on her, but Miranda suspected he was assessing her, even as she did the same to him. Her suspicion was confirmed when he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

 

She swallowed her mouthful of toast. “Certainly.”

 

“Why are you with Cerberus?”

 

Miranda put her fork down while she considered that one. Some of her reasons were far more personal than she was willing to share. “Cerberus isn’t what you think,” she began.

 

“You don’t know what I think,” he countered.

 

She gave him a practiced, tolerant smile. “No? I imagine I can guess. You’re accustomed to thinking of Cerberus as a terrorist organization. We’re really very little different than an elite asari commando unit, or STG. We seek the advancement of humanity—economically, scientifically, culturally. The Alliance is too cautious to do what needs to be done. So we do.”

 

“The advancement of humanity,” he repeated. “At whose expense?”

 

She let her shoulders rise and fall. “We don’t necessarily seek to oust current galactic leadership. We merely seek to make our own place in the galaxy. Why should we be held back by political accords and arrangements we never had a part in creating? If humanity can create better ideas, better strategies, better technology than currently exists, why shouldn’t we do so, and make the most of it?”

 

“Hmm.” Vakarian toyed with a fork, which looked small and awkward in his three-fingered hand. He wore gloves even to eat, she noted. “I assume then you wouldn’t consider yourself a xenophobe.”

 

“Absolutely not.” Miranda leaned forward. “I have respect for what the other species have accomplished, and I can certainly respect aliens as individuals. I can respect your skills and experience, for example.”

 

“Thank you,” he said, dry as dust.

 

She pressed on. “But you’re not naive. You’ve seen how the world operates. I happen to believe humanity isn’t going to get anywhere by sitting by and waiting for the Council to hand us things. We have to work for our own betterment, any way that we can.”

 

“At a high cost,” he said.

 

“Everything has a cost.”

 

He shook his head, though he didn’t break eye contact. “I mean the lives of your own people. That Alliance admiral—Kahoku. We saw his body. We saw experiments with husks, rachni, the Thorian, thresher maws. All human experimental subjects, with considerable loss of life. Alliance marines and isolated colonies picked off and used for Cerberus’s purposes.”

 

She wondered for a moment if Shepard had put him up to this. She’d expected these questions from the commander herself, but she hadn’t done more than make veiled allusions to any of these events. “I’m not privy to the details of all these projects.”

 

His gaze suddenly sharpened. “I was informed you had studied Shepard’s background intensively.”

 

“I have. I mean that I’m not privy to the details on the Cerberus side. I’m aware of Shepard’s reports and conclusions, but they may not be entirely accurate. Every organization has its bad apples, Vakarian. Its failures. Sometimes a project gets out of control. It’s not the fault of the entire organization.”

 

His mandibles pressed flat against his jaw, and his head tilted forward. “What about the superiors who allowed those abuses to happen? Especially more than once? Once you have enough failures, it begins to look like a systemic problem, Lawson.”

 

Her spine prickled with the very beginnings of a biotic surge. Miranda forced down her defensive response and leaned back in her chair, putting on another practiced smile. “As I said, I’m not privy to the details of those operations. Cerberus allows considerable autonomy to its project leaders. That sometimes yields great success, and sometimes great failure.”

 

“Great success?” he asked, and it wasn’t hard for her to read the sarcasm heavy in his voice.

 

Her smile stretched. “The Lazarus Project, for one. I assure you, it wasn’t easy to bring Commander Shepard back from the dead.”

 

Vakarian continued staring at her, his posture rigid, although he wasn’t showing his teeth. Finally, he settled back in his own seat and rolled his shoulders, his posture relaxing. “Thanks for answering my question.”

 

“It’s no trouble.” She returned to her meal. “Why did you ask?”

 

“You’re clearly intelligent and capable. You must have had other career options.”

 

Her smile stiffened for a moment. There had been fewer options than he might imagine—or, at least, fewer with the resources to keep Henry Lawson away from her. “I joined Cerberus because they will act in humanity’s best interests.” That much was true, at least, even if not the whole truth. He didn’t need the whole truth.

 

“Mm.” He poked at his rations.

 

“You have to admit they’re willing to do more about the missing colonies than the Alliance.”

 

“True,” he admitted. “That doesn’t cancel out everything else.”

 

Miranda frowned, noticing that other crew were beginning to trickle into the mess hall, and she hadn’t yet finished her breakfast. Gardner had taken his place in the galley, and Hadley and Matthews came along soon after. She took another, larger, bite. Vakarian was doing the same, she saw, out of the corner of her eye.

 

She ate quickly, but she still hadn’t quite finished when Jacob took the seat next to her, his own plate loaded. She felt a brief flash of jealousy. No one ever seemed taken aback by the quantity of food that he ate. “Morning, Miranda,” he said, digging in with gusto.

 

She swallowed her mouthful. “Good morning, Jacob.”

 

“Saw the plans for that cannon you want to build, Vakarian. That’s going to pack a wallop.”

 

“That’s the plan,” the turian replied, relaxing a fraction. Miranda wondered if he’d grilled Jacob about his allegiance, as well. “I saw the reports about the ship that hit the old _Normandy_. We definitely need better guns going up against something like that.”

 

“Amen to that,” Jacob said with a grin. “Besides, bigger guns are always better, right?”

 

Vakarian shrugged, his mandibles opening up in the semblance of a smile. “I don’t know about _always_ , but most of the time, yeah.”

 

The mess hall was beginning to fill, though Shepard hadn’t yet made an appearance. A glance at her omni-tool revealed that she already had a dozen messages waiting at her terminal. Miranda forced down the last few bites of her breakfast and departed.

 

Part of her wanted to resume the argument, perhaps see if Jacob would add some bolstering arguments. Ridiculous, really. What did it matter if she convinced one turian?

 

She knew the answer, though. Because he had Shepard’s ear, and Shepard relied on him.

 

It was much too early in the morning for a headache, but Miranda felt one coming on all the same.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Miranda was meticulous about her reports. Those she sent to the Illusive Man were detailed yet concise. She prided herself on her ability to relate the salient developments of each mission, along with evaluating the Commander and the rest of the team. So far, she was cautiously optimistic about their progress. She could state with confidence that Shepard was both physically and mentally sound. Enough for combat, at least. It remained to be seen how well she could pull the crew together and accomplish their major mission. She’d been stable except when Vakarian was injured, however. Miranda frowned, considering that. Archangel’s identity was unanticipated. She’d included an irritated note about their researcher’s thoroughness in her last report. Her own plan had been for Shepard to learn to rely on unfamiliar personnel, particularly herself and Jacob. It still galled her a little that Vakarian had managed to elude Cerberus’ initial searches for him. Moreover, he was proving frustratingly opaque. He had deftly dodged Kelly Chambers’ attempts to engage him in an evaluative interview. Of course, he wasn’t alone there. Solus had, according to Kelly, gone on regarding neuroscience and best psychiatric practice for nearly an hour before sending her away, and Massani had merely regaled her with war stories, each more gruesome than the last.

 

The AI’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Operative Lawson, you asked me to inform you when Shepard had returned from Alchera. She has now returned.”

 

“Thank you, EDI.”

 

Miranda was not best pleased with whomever in the Alliance had decided that Shepard should be informed of the location of the wreck. Did they have no idea how delicate her psychological state might be? No matter how stable she seemed, visiting the crash site could have unpredictable results. Anderson had to have a hand in it; she knew Shepard had made contact with him, and it was the first time she’d truly been tempted to erase a message before Shepard read it. Sending her to the place of her death might not have been his bright idea, she supposed; he might have simply passed Shepard’s location on to someone else in Alliance command. Whoever had done it, it was infuriating Alliance meddling, entirely typical. They couldn’t be bothered to do anything effective about the disappearing colonies, but throw a wrench into Miranda’s mission and destabilize her charge? Yes. That, they could do, and whatever happened to Shepard as a result, Miranda would have to sort out.

 

She left her office and headed down to the shuttle bay. She felt a rush of annoyance to find that Vakarian had reached Shepard ahead of her. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised.

 

“You didn’t have to go down there alone, Shepard. I would have gone with you,” he was saying.

 

Shepard was looking down at the round object in her hands. “You would have hated it.” She looked up and flashed a smile at the turian. “It was awfully cold down there.”

 

He let out a short bark of laughter, which sounded strained to Miranda’s ear. “You don’t say.”

 

“Yeah. Really quite frigid. I have it on good authority that turians don’t like the cold.”

 

“Well. That was considerate of you, then.”

 

“That’s me. I have my crew’s best interests at heart. The Mako’s down there, did you know?”

 

“Really?” He rubbed the side of his neck. “Damn. All the hours I spent on that thing...”

 

Shepard grinned. “Think you could get it running again?”

 

Vakarian laughed again. “Please, Shepard. I have enough to do getting the ship’s cannon in shape.”

 

They started toward the elevator, and Miranda, side by side. Miranda was struck by the contrast between them; Shepard was a tall and athletic woman, but Vakarian was still at least half a head taller, and bulkier, especially in that heavy armor. Shepard didn’t look _small_ , precisely—Miranda wasn’t sure she could ever look small—but she certainly looked smaller. They were a peculiar pair, walking together with a loose, matched stride, in spite of their different physiology. Miranda pursed her lips, wondering what had drawn the disaffected detective and humanity’s best soldier together. All the testimony she’d seen from the previous mission indicated that the two had been friendly, but didn’t give her enough insight into why. There was a great deal of _why_ to Shepard that she didn’t understand. Why she had not yet confronted Miranda directly, for example, in spite of sliding around Cerberus’s strictures whenever she could. It was not the behavior Miranda would have expected, given the woman’s records, in combat or out of it.

 

Shepard and Vakarian stopped short when they saw her. “Miranda,” Shepard said with a nod. “Did you need something?”

 

“Not at all. I just thought I’d see how the mission had gone.”

 

Shepard’s expression tightened. She looked down again at what she carried, and Miranda realized with a sudden chill that it was her old helmet. She remembered seeing it when they’d first come to Alchera for the retrieval, but in the absence of Shepard’s body, it had seemed too inconsequential to take.

 

Shepard said, “Well enough. The Alliance asked if I could find the dog tags of the deceased crew.” She held up one hand, showing the fistful of chains she carried. “Got them all.”

 

Miranda ignored the way Vakarian was glaring at her, as if he could put a round through her head by sheer force of will. “I see. Anything else to report?”

 

The turian’s glare intensified, but Shepard didn’t react to it, either, shrugging. “Managed to salvage a few materials.”

 

“I’ll have someone unload them from the shuttle.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

For a moment, the three of them stood in an awkward triangle. Shepard was focused on the battered helmet cradled in her arms. Vakarian was still glaring at Miranda; if she was any judge, he was only a hair’s breadth from hustling Shepard past her and into the elevator. “And how are you, Shepard?” she asked.

 

Shepard looked at her with a brief flash of surprise. “I’m all right.” She started toward the elevator, leaving Miranda and Vakarian both little choice but to fall in beside her. Once the door closed behind them, she tapped the helmet idly. “Looks like I’m lucky to be alive.”

 

“We had some fortunate turns,” Miranda said briskly. The primary piece of luck, in all honesty, being that her central nervous system had been intact. Shepard had never inquired about the details, however, and this hardly seemed the time to bring them up.

 

Vakarian was still giving her an odd look, perhaps now more puzzled than irritated. Miranda kept her attention on Shepard. It didn’t particularly matter if he understood her. Perhaps she was not particularly moved by the fate of the late _Normandy_ ’s crew, but she recognized that Shepard was. Miranda had, after all, read every scrap of documentation regarding the events on Mindoir. The trauma was crucial to Shepard’s psychology, in her opinion. It was no surprise that the fate of the colonists, and of her crew, were important to her.

 

She watched Shepard out of the corner of her eye. She was gazing down at the helmet again before shaking her head and shifting it to the side, bracing it against her hip. “Eezo, mostly,” Shepard said.

 

Miranda blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“The salvage. Mostly refined eezo.”

 

Miranda refocused. “Ah. Excellent. We may be able to look into some amp upgrades.”

 

“Let’s discuss the specs tomorrow.” Shepard sounded entirely normal. If she was distressed, she was hiding it well, and Miranda didn’t think she was that skilled an actress. Good. Perhaps the Alliance’s little memorial wouldn’t create problems, after all.

 

#

 

Garrus knew it was Shepard as soon as the doors slid open—not just because hardly anyone else bothered to come into the battery, but because of the particular cadence of her step. This time, though, instead of asking if he could spare a minute, Shepard said, “You know, I could fire Lawson and make you XO.”

 

Garrus’s shoulders tensed. He looked down at the glowing calculations on the screen of his console. The battery was comfortably warm, the equipment humming at a frequency which drowned out the more discordant noises of the human crew elsewhere on the ship. It was a perfectly situated place to work quietly, without being disturbed. Disturbed by anyone by Shepard, at any rate. He was used to her daily rounds from the first _Normandy_ , but lately, if there wasn’t a ground mission, she was likely to stop by more than once a day. He couldn’t always predict when. Usually she just checked in, maybe exchanged a few pleasantries, and left him to his work. She hadn’t asked any more questions about Omega, at least. He was grateful for that. It was too near and too distant, all at once. Here on the _Normandy_ , Omega and its grit and stench seemed almost unreal, and yet, when he had a spare minute, he went back over those last weeks in his mind, looking for the signs he should have seen, the ones he’d missed at the time.

 

He’d been quiet too long, probably. He straightened, lifting his head, and forced himself to keep his tone light. “Rather not deal with the paperwork, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

She let out a short laugh. “Somehow I thought you’d say that.”

 

Garrus laughed briefly and turned around. Shepard stood watching him with her arms crossed. She was smiling, but there was a faint vertical line between her eyebrows. Seemed like he’d been seeing that expression on her face more often than he remembered it occurring back on the SR-1. “Miranda seems more the paperwork type.”

 

Her mouth turned up more on one side. “You’re right about that. The reports she sends me could be framed and used as models.”

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

Her eyebrows went up. “Of course.”

 

“How far do you trust her?” As far as he could tell, the two humans had a certain tension between them, barely concealed by politeness. Unless he missed his guess badly, Lawson was not pleased about having to defer to Shepard’s judgment on this mission.

 

Shepard sighed and took a seat on the supply crate, leaning back against the wall. “Let me ask you something first. What do you think of her?”

 

Garrus considered that. He was mildly surprised she’d bothered asking, but his assessment came readily enough. “She’s obviously intelligent. A strong biotic. Very efficient. Businesslike. She’s also got the Cerberus line down pat. She’s probably a very effective recruiter. Why do you ask?”

 

Shepard nodded. “I agree. She’s highly competent, very intelligent, and invested in the success of the mission. I have no doubt that she’ll do her job, and do it well. The problem is, I’m fairly sure her job entails spying on me. Those surveillance devices we pulled have to be going somewhere, and I know she sends reports to the Illusive Man. She hasn’t bothered to hide that. Of the entire crew, she’s clearly the most loyal to Cerberus.”

 

“Most of them are loyal to Cerberus,” Garrus observed.

 

Shepard frowned. “No one’s been giving you shit, though, right?”

 

Garrus waved her off. “No. Relax. I told you before, everyone’s being polite. I don’t know that everyone _likes_ that I’m here, but they’re all coping with it.”

 

“Hm.” She was still frowning, but she said, “Whatever the rest of them think, Miranda’s a true believer, and she may be the only one highly placed enough to know much about Cerberus’s other activities. Hell, half of this crew only signed on with Cerberus in the last six months. I’ve been asking. They were brought in specifically for this mission, I think.”

 

Ah. Of course Shepard had been using her usual rounds to gain intel about their adversaries, Cerberus included. “Do you think the Illusive Man would even allow you to replace Lawson?” Garrus asked, curious.

 

Her expression smoothed out, turning thoughtful. “I don’t know. It would be interesting to find out. Useful to know how long my leash is. But I’m not sure it’s worth pissing Miranda off or disrupting the crew. The Cerberus personnel don’t always like her, but they respect her.” She shrugged. “An XO doesn’t need to be liked. She’s good at the logistics and she’s running the crew effectively. That’s enough for now.”

 

Garrus hesitated. Part of him didn’t even want to ask the next question, but curiosity prevailed. “So... you weren’t serious, then.”

 

“I wanted to see what you thought about it.” She stood up, her green eyes very intent on him. “I also wanted you to know that I trust you. There are reasons not to change the current arrangement, but if I had complete latitude to choose my own crew, you’d be my first choice. I didn’t want you to think I don’t have confidence in you.”

 

If he were a better turian, affirmation from his superior officer should have been exactly what he wanted to hear, straightening his spine, filling him with pride. Instead, Shepard stood there, poised and earnest and focused on him, and mostly what he felt was a dull surge of resentment. He knew very well what she was doing. He didn’t need her damned pep talk. It was the same tone of voice she’d used talking to Williams, back in the day. She didn’t get it, did she? He’d told her the story—as much of it as he could stand—and she still thought she could fix things with an earnest look and encouraging words. Maybe it was because she never would have failed the way he had.

 

He looked away, turning back to the console. “I wasn’t worried about promotion, Shepard. You know I’ve got your six. That’s enough.” He hoped it would be enough, anyway. Combat, at least, was simple. Simple decisions, especially with Shepard giving the orders. Backing her up was one thing he’d always been good at.

 

In his peripheral vision, he saw her take a step closer, but he didn’t turn to look at her. At least he still had peripheral vision. He cleared his throat. “Do you need something else, Shepard?”

 

He thought she frowned, but all she said was, “I’ll leave you to your work, then.”

 

#

 

As the entrance to Jarrahe station locked behind the three of them, and the VI began droning a contamination warning, Vakarian said, “Well, that’s not good.”

 

Finding little humor in the situation, Miranda shot him a look that would have quelled most of her subordinates. The turian, of course, ignored it, and Shepard laughed. “Your sterling observational skills never fail to impress me, Garrus.”

 

“That’s what I’m here for.”

 

“Thought you said you were here to pretty the place up.”

 

“That, too. Don’t forget providing some shooting accuracy on this operation, either.”

 

“How could I?”

 

Miranda turned away, flicking through all the frequencies on her comm unit. EDI had traced a batch of defective mechs to this station. They’d been prepared for more hostile mechs, but not the station VI. Foolish, in hindsight. She wasn’t sure it was wise to be so set on tracing the problem to its origins, but that wasn’t her primary irritant at the moment. She hadn’t been groundside with both Shepard and Vakarian since he’d come on board. Their ability to banter about nothing more than their own excellence was already grating on her nerves.

 

“Comms are jammed,” said Shepard, coming up behind Miranda. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Garrus. I’m a good shot.”

 

He snorted. “Please, Shepard. You favor a shotgun.”

 

“Don’t forget my new best friend, the Carnifex.” Shepard patted the holstered pistol.

 

“Of course, lately you seem to favor just throwing yourself at the enemy.”

 

“What can I say? It works.”

 

It did not take much imagination to understand what had happened here. The bodies and the VI’s continued warnings told the story: the VI system had become compromised, its self-defense protocol had viewed the human inhabitants of the station as a threat, and it had responded with lethal measures. At any moment, it might choose to do the same to them—the VI didn’t need weapons when it controlled life support systems, making all the guns they carried next to useless. Miranda did not consider herself a fearful person, but the idea of being asphyxiated on this damned station made her breath come a little short. She deliberately took deep, slow breaths to prevent any kind of panic reaction. She also watched Shepard out of the corner of her eye. If the commander were equally perturbed, she managed not to show it. She sauntered about, her heavy armor clanking, her eyes flicking about rapidly, taking everything in as they explored the dark and—apparently—depopulated station.

 

The VI locked the doors of the crew quarters behind them as soon as they entered. Miranda’s breath caught again, expecting some more lethal measure to follow.

 

Nothing happened. They all stood poised, but the section was quiet. Vakarian sighed and moved toward one of the doors, bending to look at the lock.

 

“Well,” said Shepard brightly. “Let’s see if we can do anything with the power over here.” She moved to the console at the center of the room.

 

Miranda took another deep breath and followed the turian’s lead, turning to the second door out of the room.

 

An hour later, her back ached and she was still working at the lock.

 

“I wish Tali were here,” Vakarian muttered.

 

“Come on, don’t tell me you can’t hack that,” Shepard said.

 

He twisted his head around to glare at her. “It’s changing the encryption as fast as I’m hacking, and the power keeps cutting out.”

 

Miranda was having equally poor luck with the other lock. It was infuriating. She didn’t feel the need to complain ceaselessly about it, however.

 

“Tali might not do any better, then.” Shepard frowned at the station schematic displayed on the terminal she’d managed to access, and tapped at the control interface.

 

“Yeah, but you know how she loves going up against rogue VIs.”

 

In spite of herself, Miranda snorted.

 

“Problem?” Shepard poked the interface again.

 

“No,” Miranda said. “I was just reflecting that there aren’t many who could count fighting rogue VIs as a habit.”

 

Vakarian laughed, to Miranda’s surprise. Shepard chuckled. “That’s true. Lucky bastards.”

 

“Oh, they don’t know what they’re missing out on,” he said.

 

Shepard tapped the interface again.

 

“Five doors open,” droned the VI, as all the visible locks in that wing of the station turned green.

 

“There we go!” Shepard proclaimed.

 

Vakarian stood from his crouched position. His mandibles flared. “How did you do that?”

 

Shepard shrugged. “I just moved things around.”

 

Miranda straightened herself, stretching out her back, and activated the door. The other two followed her, still bickering.

 

“What do you mean, you moved things around?”

 

“I don’t know. I fiddled some settings and I think I confused the VI.”

 

“You have no finesse at all!”

 

“I never said I did.”

 

Vakarian let out an exasperated sigh. “I just don’t understand how you get results like that from brute force.”

 

“Does it matter?” Miranda asked. “At least we got out of there.”

 

“See?” said Shepard. “Results, Garrus.”

 

He grumbled something under his breath that Miranda didn’t catch.

 

They worked their way through the rest of the station, getting themselves trapped again, in the labs this time, as they went. Shepard had managed to manipulate the lab’s experiment so that the VI was forced to shut down power and unlock the door, prompting Vakarian to reminisce, at some length, about an incident with a mining laser. While it was clear that what they needed to do was access the room housing the VI core so they could shut it down, they needed to find and reroute power from every wing of the station to counter the VI’s control measures. It was taking an irritatingly long time, and Miranda still half-feared the oxygen would simply cut out before they managed to shut the thing down. Vakarian and Shepard’s constant chatter was not improving her mood any.

 

“I think we’re going to need to access the power in engineering,” Shepard said.

 

“Brute forcing it again,” Vakarian replied.

 

Shepard spread her hands. “We’ve been everywhere else on the station. It’s the only thing we have left to try.”

 

Vakarian crossed his arms and huffed out a breath. Miranda grimaced. Shepard was right, and doubtless Vakarian realized that as well. Unfortunately... “Shepard, there’s plasma venting in engineering.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” She stood at the entrance to the section and watched the jets spray out of the walls, her expression thoughtful. “I think I can make it.”

 

Vakarian’s mandibles flared. “What?”

 

Miranda said, “That’s not a good idea, Shepard. You could be killed.” The last thing they needed was to lose her on an inessential task like this.

 

Shepard turned to face them, rubbing the back of her neck. “You gave me this fancy new implant, Miranda. I think I can zip through there, if I time it right. And if they do catch me—” She smiled, but Miranda thought it looked strained. “—well, I can regrow skin, right?”

 

“Your augmentations include a limited degree of self-healing,” Miranda admitted. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

 

“It’s a terrible idea,” Vakarian said, practically growling.

 

“I have a better shot at it than either of you,” Shepard said. “Does anyone have a better idea? Because I don’t know how much longer it will be before the VI does something drastic.”

 

She looked expectantly from one to the other. Miranda’s lips compressed. No, she didn’t have a better idea. The lack still didn’t make Shepard’s idea a _good_ one. She glanced at the turian. His mandibles were shifting in and out, his head tipped down. She didn’t think he liked the prospect any better than she did. “We can’t even communicate with you with comms out,” she pointed out.

 

“I know. It shouldn’t take long, though. All right,” Shepard said, turning back to the corridor leading to the engineering section. “Here I go.” She paused briefly; then her fist clenched and she shot down the corridor in a haze of blue. “So far so good!” she shouted, and disappeared around the corner.

 

Vakarian let out a long breath. Miranda began counting out a mental estimate of how long it might take Shepard to reach and activate the power in engineering. It was too quiet, now, with comms out. She crossed her arms and found herself drumming her fingers against her arm. Was it growing warmer? Her breath was coming a little faster and shallower. She deliberately slowed down and activated her omni-tool to check the local atmosphere.

 

“Oxygen levels are fine,” said Vakarian.

 

Miranda looked up. “Excuse me?”

 

He pointed at his targeting visor. “I’ve been monitoring conditions. The VI hasn’t decided to pull the plug on us yet.”

 

Miranda dismissed the tool’s holographic interface. “Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“I didn’t want to draw Shepard’s attention to it.”

 

Miranda considered that, starting as realization struck home. “You’ve been distracting her on purpose.”

 

He shrugged, crossing his arms again as he looked toward the corridor where Shepard had disappeared. “Did she tell you she remembers dying?”

 

“I’d gathered as much,” Miranda said, remembering Shepard’s complaint about the viewport in her quarters.

 

He blew out a quiet breath, but made no further comment. Miranda had always found turians difficult to read; their expressions were so alien compared to human faces, all ridges and angles. The stiff bandage and livid wounds marring the side of his face turned toward her made his even more difficult. Still, she thought she could safely call his mood _bleak_. The absence of his and Shepard’s chatter now loomed large, the silence ringing in her ears.

 

Abruptly, the jets venting down the corridor stopped. A few moments later, Shepard came jogging back, a wide grin on her face. “Miss me?”

 

Miranda couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. Vakarian frowned at Shepard. “You’re hurt.”

 

She did have a blistered burn streaking across one cheek and scorch marks on her armor, but Shepard dismissed his concern. “I mis-timed a run. Don’t worry about it, it’s already healing up.”

 

After that, deactivating the VI was no trouble. Miranda was glad to get on the shuttle and leave the place behind her. Vakarian and Shepard went back to chattering aimlessly with each other, though she thought his eyes stayed on that healing burn on her cheek. She filed the information away. The turian didn’t give away much, but when it came to Shepard... well. It was an interesting degree of protectiveness from a subordinate.


	5. Chapter 5

For a time, Miranda felt nearly in control of the situation. To be frank, things had been going better than she’d expected. All missions to date had been completed successfully, and the various elements of the crew were coming together. Mordin Solus appeared to be making good progress on his research regarding the seeker swarms—he seemed to have taken on various personal projects as well, but it wasn’t damaging his efficiency. Miranda was familiar the general capacities of salarians, but had not had the need or the opportunity to work with one closely. Mordin was clearly exceptionally brilliant even for his species. For the most part, he kept himself to his lab, but he proved flexible enough to interact with the Cerberus crew without any difficulty. Perhaps his life on Omega, working among its varied population, had served as preparation for him. If he had any qualms about being surrounded by humans, or about Cerberus as a whole, he kept them to himself. Massani did his work, followed orders, and otherwise kept largely to himself, as well. Kasumi Goto, Miranda was certain, spent a considerable amount of her waking time traveling the ship under cloak, or exploring the maintenance passages, but she was doing no harm to the ship’s systems, so she didn’t address it. Even Vakarian was fitting in better than Miranda had anticipated. He, too, spent most of his on-duty hours at his post—and a good number of his off-duty hours, as well. He appeared to be friendly with with the engineering crew, especially Donnelly (though the latter was a gregarious sort who tended to befriend everyone), and was civil with everyone on the crew. The ship’s crew itself was coming together well, in spite of the varied backgrounds of its members.

 

Miranda admitted that she had to attribute much of the mission’s success to date to Shepard. Miranda still didn’t entirely understand how Shepard did it, but somehow she was the undisputed center of the crew, and everything settled into place around her. Morale was high, which helped, and the crew in general was hand-picked and highly motivated, solidly focused on stopping the colony attacks and bringing down the Collectors. Shepard, though, had a way of soothing ruffled feathers, letting everyone believe their contributions were appreciated, and somehow motivating them to do _more_ instead of resting in smug satisfaction. Her ability to take tiny strike teams and cut her way through all opposition was nothing short of astounding. Miranda had studied Shepard’s tactics, methods, and personality for two years, and still found herself surprised. She was no stranger to leadership herself—the Lazarus Project was only the most recent of the projects she’d carried out for Cerberus. She’d managed disparate personalities, prickly geniuses included, and she’d gotten her people to fall into line and do work that no one even dreamed was possible.

 

Shepard, though, had a knack with people—some kind of charm—that Miranda had never managed.

 

When Shepard stopped by that day on her usual daily check-in, Miranda decided to take the opportunity to express her appreciation for the mission’s success. “I’m impressed,” she finished with a smile. “As Cerberus operations go, this is one of the best I’ve been a part of.”

 

Shepard shook her head. “Maybe that’s because this isn’t a Cerberus mission.”

 

Miranda controlled the urge to sigh. She considered it part of her objectives to persuade Shepard to modify her views. The Illusive Man had made that implicit expectation quite clear in her briefings. “Maybe not for you. But I report directly to the Illusive Man. Cerberus gave you a second chance, Commander. Maybe you should do the same for us.”

 

Shepard’s right eyebrow twitched upward. “What did Cerberus do to win your loyalty?” She asked in a calm, neutral tone.

 

“Hm.” Miranda took a breath. Perhaps... perhaps it was appropriate to let Shepard in a little. She’d seldom mentioned these details to anyone. There was no need for her subordinates to know what she was and where she came from. Shepard, though, wasn’t properly a subordinate. It might serve better if she understood Miranda’s point of view more thoroughly.

 

Still, it was difficult to keep her composure when talking about her father. Shepard took a seat as Miranda spoke, leaning forward with one elbow on her knee, her face calm and her green eyes sharply focused. It helped, curiously; it helped her manage that curious mixture of anger and embarrassment. It was never pleasant to confess that one was a made creature, and more than that, had been created by an egomaniac. She explained more of the details than she usually would—her lack of a mother, her need to get away from her father’s household and influence. Shepard needed to understand that Cerberus could be a refuge, not only for herself but for the rest of humanity.

 

Shepard’s questions showed that she didn’t entirely understand. Capable of defending herself? Yes, in a fight, even at the age when she’d escaped. That was quite a different thing from protecting herself against her father’s _influence_ , his money and connections. _That_ was the protection that Cerberus gave her. Protection, and a purpose.

 

Shepard frowned. “You talk about yourself like you’re just a... tool to be used. By your father, by Cerberus...”

 

“Maybe. I like to know where I fit in the world. It helps me find meaning in how I was created.” Miranda hadn’t meant to let that out. She kept herself composed, but it took a certain effort to do so.

 

Shepard laced her fingers together, still serious. “You are who you are, Miranda. You don’t need to make excuses for it.”

 

Miranda forced a smile. Resentment was welling up inside her, and it spilled out before she stopped herself, but she kept a smile on her face. “That’s easy for you to say. We’ve both been engineered for greatness, Shepard. The difference is, you were great before we rebuilt you. I’m great because of it.” There it was. Shepard had become great on her own merits, through her own work. She’d been a nobody from a minor colony, no exceptional background, and _look_ what she had become.

 

The commander’s eyes stayed open and intent. “Your spirit and personality are what make you great. It’s what makes anyone great.”

 

Miranda pressed her lips together. She couldn’t say she was surprised to find Shepard challenging her on this. She brushed it off, making a polite, noncommittal reply. It was easy enough for Shepard to say that it was personality and spirit that mattered, but she didn’t truly understand. How could she? Miranda knew quite well how she had been designed, how she’d improved on the template of her lost sisters before her. What made her different from them was some tinkering on the genetic level. Shepard, however, had made her own successes.

 

Still, after the commander had left, Miranda sat at her desk for a while, frowning at her terminal without quite registering what was on the screen. Shepard’s refusal to see the bigger picture where Cerberus was concerned was frustrating. It might not matter for the moment, but in the future... having Shepard on their side could be crucial. She tapped her fingers on the desk, feeling increasingly unsettled. Shepard behaved as if she had all the answers; she’d responded to Miranda with airy self-confidence. Miranda did not need her platitudes of self-esteem boosting. Shepard didn’t understand that, any more than she understood Cerberus.

 

Irritated, she put the matter aside and returned to her work.

 

#

 

After that, everything began going downhill rapidly.

 

Recruiting Okeer proved a failure. Although Shepard and her ground team returned with no more than minor injuries, Okeer was dead, and they had not acquired from him any meaningful information about the Collectors. They had his prized creation, in a tank that took up significant space in the port cargo hold, but that was hardly what they had gone to Korlus for. Miranda could not help but wish she had been groundside for that mission herself... and yet, she went over Shepard’s, Vakarian’s, and Jacob’s reports in detail, and was uncertain that her presence would have altered the outcome.

 

Then Goto’s requested favor nearly turned into another disaster. Neither Goto nor Shepard had fully briefed Miranda on their absurd plan before going through with it. Yes, they escaped in the end with the item Goto was determined to acquire—and a few others—but Shepard could easily have been killed by Hock and his damned gunship before the _Normandy_ had been able to send assistance. For once, Miranda found herself fully in sympathy with Vakarian, who looked as if he were about to explode when Shepard described the whole thing. What was almost worse was the amount of _attention_ they’d drawn. There were over a hundred people at Hock’s private party, and Bekenstein was a public, well-patrolled space, unlike their usual work in the Terminus Systems. Miranda had to draw on a lot of Cerberus resources to keep the event under wraps and to keep Shepard’s name out of it.

 

And _then_ , against Miranda’s advice, without even informing anyone beforehand, Shepard just opened Okeer’s damned tank and released a volatile, unknown krogan onto the ship. Once she’d cheerily dropped by Miranda’s office to tell her to increase Gardner’s budget for provisions and departed again, Miranda snapped, “EDI.”

 

“Yes, Operative Lawson?”

 

“You must have been aware that Shepard was opening the tank.”

 

“Yes, Operative Lawson. I advised her against doing so and informed her of relevant Cerberus protocols.”

 

Miranda grit her teeth. Her jaw was beginning to ache. “Why did you not inform _me_ that she was about to do so?”

 

“You were composing your report for the Illusive Man. I believed you did not wish to be disturbed.”

 

Miranda frowned, wishing she had a face to frown _at_. “Do not take a judgment like that upon yourself again. The next time Shepard does something so rash, inform me immediately.”

 

There was a pause. “The parameters of that request may be difficult to comply with, Operative Lawson.”

 

Miranda pressed her fingertips to her aching temple. “You are surely aware that a rogue krogan is capable of breaching bulkheads and killing half the crew of this vessel. His release posed an unacceptable hazard. The next time such a hazard may occur, inform me. I am certain you are capable of calculating the odds of that sort of danger.”

 

“Shepard successfully calmed the krogan. He is now inhabiting the cargo hold and shows minimal signs of hostility.”

 

“That’s excellent, but it’s not the point.”

 

“Understood, Operative Lawson.” After a moment, the AI added, sounding almost hesitant, “He too is genetically engineered. You—”

 

“Stop,” said Miranda flatly. She did not want to hear whatever additional information the AI was about to venture.

 

“Yes, Operative Lawson.”

 

She had made a mistake, she realized. She had expected Shepard to confront her directly, to try to push against Cerberus’ restrictions. She had not expected Shepard to simply sidestep issues and do things like releasing the damned krogan on her own. It was an interestingly subtle approach; Miranda could only hope she’d be better placed to counter it in the future.

 

#

 

Miranda sought out Jacob in the armory.

 

She wasn’t imitating Shepard, she told herself. Shepard made the rounds of the ship every day. Sometimes she spoke to each crew member no more than five minutes. Sometimes she might talk to someone as long as an hour. It varied. EDI had timed her rounds; Miranda had stared at all the times in a spreadsheet, and could tell no rhyme or reason for it. Sometimes she could find a reason for one particular conversation—there, for example, Shepard had listened to Daniels and Donnelly describing needed engine upgrades for forty-three minutes—but she was unable to derive the general pattern.

 

She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Shepard’s habit. She understood the value of keeping touch with the crew, and yet the expenditure of time and energy often seemed excessive. Miranda generally preferred to call people to her office when she needed to discuss something with them. Shepard had behaved similarly on the previous _Normandy_ , however, and it hadn’t diminished her effectiveness then.

 

Today, though, Miranda needed to discuss weapon specifications with Jacob, and it was more efficient to do so in the armory itself, where they could easily compare models and check the settings on the fabricator. It wasn’t about mimicking Shepard.

 

He wasn’t there. Miranda drew up short and looked around the armory with some surprise. Everything was neat, tidy, and in its place, except for one assault rifle which lay, disassembled, on Jacob’s work bench, but Jacob himself wasn’t there. She frowned, irritated with herself for not confirming his presence first. “EDI, where is Operative Taylor?”

 

“Operative Taylor is in the cargo bay.”

 

Ah. She must have interrupted part of his workout routine. Miranda turned smartly on her heel and returned to the elevator.

 

The scene before her when she emerged from the elevator caught her by surprise. Jacob and Shepard were both down there, both attired in workout clothes and well drenched with sweat. Someone had set up a basketball hoop, of all things; Shepard had the ball and was dribbling, cautiously, while Jacob loomed under the basket, spreading his arms in a defensive stance. While Miranda watched, Shepard made her move, feinting left before driving to her right and launching herself upward in a veil of blue. Jacob responded with his own biotic surge, reaching to slap the ball out of her hands, but it was his dark energy field that disrupted the ball’s path and sent it bouncing away. The clashing biotic fields resonated painfully in Miranda’s perception. Shepard landed hard, laughing. “I’m pretty sure that’s some kind of foul, Mr. Taylor.”

 

“No way, Shepard. That was a clean block.”

 

Miranda’s grip tightened on her datapad.

 

Jacob jogged over to retrieve the ball. “Now you’ll see how things are _done_ ,” he declared, dribbling a couple times.

 

Shepard snorted, pushing sweat-damp hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. So far you’re more talk than action, Jacob.”

 

He took off toward her, ball in hand, and Shepard drew herself up, a barrier flaring into existence around her. Jacob pulled up well before reaching her, however, and launched the ball into a graceful arc, with an extra slam of biotic power that sent the ball through the hoop. “Taylor for three! And the crowd goes wild!”

 

Shepard caught the ball and braced it against one hip. “You were traveling.”

 

“Whatever you say, Shepard. I still win.”

 

“I’m out of practice.”

 

Jacob shook his head. “Pathetic, that’s what it is.”

 

“I was dead for two years!”

 

“That is such a crap excuse. Positively pitiful.”

 

They were both laughing. Miranda realized, abruptly, that her teeth were clenched. She deliberately loosened her jaw and cleared her throat.

 

Both of them turned toward her at once, their smiles fading. Shepard said, “Miranda. You need something?”

 

“Actually, I needed to speak with Jacob.”

 

He rolled his neck and shoulders as he came toward her. “What do you need?”

 

“I wanted to go over the specs for the Eviscerator with you. If we could take this to the armory?”

 

“Sure thing. See you, Shepard.”

 

Shepard waved acknowledgment and turned back to the basket, launching a shot.

 

Miranda held her peace until the elevator had started moving. “What on earth were you doing down here?”

 

“Shepard challenged me to a little one-on-one. Couldn’t let that go by.” Jacob glanced at her sidelong. “Why? That a problem?”

 

She couldn’t fault it. She really couldn’t. Jacob _should_ be cultivating Shepard. Better morale and team cohesion. He might, just possibly, persuade her to consider Cerberus more sympathetically, since Miranda had had no luck on that front. Yet it grated, more than it should have. “Biotics aren’t even permitted in regulation basketball,” she grumbled, overly aware of the aroma of sweaty male.

 

“One-on-one don’t have to be regulation.” Jacob half turned toward her, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s the matter, Miranda?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Don’t give me that. We go way back, don’t we?”

 

Too far back. She pressed her lips together to prevent herself from saying anything regrettable. She disliked seeing him so easy and carefree with Shepard. She hadn’t expected Shepard to be so effective at winning people over, either. She really should have, considering the team Shepard had built on her previous mission. Bitterly, Miranda wondered whom Jacob would support if it came down to a conflict. She shook her head. They were all on the same mission now. Shepard accepted her as Executive Officer, and she accepted Shepard as Commander. That was sufficient. “Let’s stay focused on the mission, Jacob,” she said in brisk tones.

 

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. Miranda stayed cool under his scrutiny. He knew her too well—better than anyone else on the ship—but she knew him, too, knew he wouldn’t push her if she didn’t give him any ground. “Fine.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Whatever you want, Miranda.”

 

#

 

What Miranda wanted was to regain some control. She had been sidelined for several missions, ever since Jarrahe Station. She tried to propose to Shepard that she join the ground team for Purgatory, which was not expected to be a combat mission, but the commander brushed her off. She wanted to see how well her krogan could follow orders, she’d said, and of course she didn’t go anywhere without Vakarian looming at her side. There was a certain logic to that choice, since they’d be dealing with the turians who ran the prison, but Shepard’s obvious preference for the turian was still annoying.

 

To top it off, _that_ mission was disastrous, as well. Miranda was, in retrospect, relieved that Shepard had taken enough muscle to deal with Kuril’s double-cross—the Illusive Man would _not_ be happy—and at least they had brought their recruit back, but the intention had certainly not been to destroy the prison ship so thoroughly.

 

And what a recruit.

 

“She’s unstable,” Miranda told Shepard sharply, after the woman who called herself “Jack” had sneered at her and crept off to the dark hole she’d claimed below Engineering.

 

“Yes,” Shepard said, in her usual neutral tone. “That was a remarkably unrevealing dossier, by the way. It would have helped to know about her history with Cerberus.”

 

Miranda directed dark thoughts at whoever had put the dossiers together. Hope something, wasn’t it? “Duly noted. I’ll mention it in my report.”

 

“Thank you. We need to be able to rely on our intel.”

 

“Commander, you cannot give a person like that access to Cerberus records.”

 

Shepard gave her a look, her lips thinning. “We have to give her something. She’s got no reason to trust us, otherwise.”

 

“Do we _need_ her to trust us?” Jack was a liability, as far as Miranda was concerned. Hostile, volatile, poorly disciplined; she ship had enough wild cards, already. She’d happily leave her at the next port.

 

Shepard’s eyebrows went up. “She’s powerful. You didn’t see what she’s capable of. If she can do to the Collectors what she did to that ship, she’ll be very helpful. And she was on the Illusive Man’s list, not mine. There must have been a reason.”

 

Miranda bit back a sigh. She couldn’t argue with that, at least, though she wanted to see whatever video footage of the mission they’d managed to collect for herself. “Fine. But I’m limiting her access. No current records.”

 

“Okay.” Shepard nodded, accepting that, and Miranda relaxed a trifle. “All right, I’m off to the briefing room. I think the Illusive Man’s got something for us.”

 

“I’d like to request to accompany you on whatever the mission is, Shepard.”

 

Shepard shook her head. “As XO, you should stay with the ship.”

 

Miranda frowned. “I don’t understand. I’ve accompanied you on missions before.”

 

“That’s true.”

 

“Then I’d like an explanation, Commander.”

 

Shepard laced her fingers together and settled back in her chair. “First let me ask you a question. What’s plan B?”

 

“Plan B?”

 

Shepard shrugged a shoulder. “I find it hard to believe you don’t have some kind of contingency plan. I’m groundside all the time. What happens if somebody takes me out?”

 

“I—” Miranda pressed her lips together. “We’d retrieve you, of course, and—”

 

“And you have another four billion credits lying around?” She tilted her head to the side, her eyebrows rising. “You don’t build and run a ship like this out of spare change. Surely Cerberus is a little stretched.”

 

“Cerberus has substantial resources,” Miranda replied stiffly. There _was_ a certain... emphasis on budgeting coming down in her private messages. She always managed her credits efficiently, so their budget was in no danger, but she had to concede Shepard’s point.

 

“I’m sure you do,” Shepard said. “I’m sure you won’t tell me the extent of them, either. All right, maybe you can put me together again. Maybe you can’t. What then? Who goes after the Collectors if I’m not available?”

 

Miranda’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Of course there are contingency plans.” She was fairly certain she had not been apprised of all of them, and she did not want to inform Shepard of that fact, even if she might have guessed already. “The mission might continue under my command.”

 

“Exactly.” Shepard leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I need you here, not groundside with me. I can’t think of a lot of people who could lead the mission in my place. I can think of fewer who could plausibly revive me again.” Her expression darkened for a moment before she gave a minute shake of her head. “That’s why I say you should stay with the ship.”

 

Miranda took in a breath and let it out slowly. Once Shepard explained her logic, she could see her decision as an odd kind of compliment. “I hadn’t realized you trusted me that much, Commander.”

 

Shepard sat upright and gave her a half-smile. “I can easily imagine circumstances in which we’d be adversaries, Miranda. But I do believe we have the same goal at present. So yes, I trust you to command in my absence.”

 

Miranda nodded once, slowly. There was a logic to it. It was not the way she was used to operating; she was accustomed to more hands-on work. It had been a long time since she was afraid to get her hands dirty. “I see.”

 

“What happened on Jarrahe Station made me think harder about it,” Shepard said. “If the AI _had_ succeeded in eliminating us, it would have been you, me, and Garrus. This mission can’t spare all of us. Jacob has many fine qualities, but I don’t see him being able to command the others.”

 

“No,” Miranda admitted. No one else on the crew was really leadership material, not in the same way. Goto was used to working solo, Mordin was better suited to the lab, Massani had the experience but little rapport with the crew, Grunt was inexperienced and immature, Jack was... well, barely sane. She gave Shepard a speculative glance. “You think Vakarian could do it?”

 

To her surprise, Shepard’s brows drew together and her eyes turned distant. “He led his own team successfully enough.”

 

“Until one of their own betrayed them.”

 

“After over a year of high-risk missions. Anyone might crack after all that.” Her expression darkened into a frown. “You don’t know him like I do. He could. If he’d let himself. I don’t know if he would.” She shook her head. “Regardless. I think you’re better used here than on the ground, Miranda.”

 

“Very well.” Miranda still didn’t entirely like it, but she could accept Shepard’s explanation. “Do try _not_ to get killed, Commander. I’d take it as a favor.”

 

Shepard let out a bark of laughter. “Don’t worry. My demise is definitely not in the plan.”

 

#


	6. Chapter 6

“What the hell happened down there?” Miranda demanded, surveying the two teammates before her. Jack, lip curled, lounged in her chair like a delinquent sent to the headmaster’s office; Vakarian sat ramrod-straight in his. Neither answered her.

 

Horizon was to have been the test to see how well the team, as presently constituted, could stand against the Collectors. The ground team’s early transmissions had verified the effectiveness of the seeker swarm countermeasures, much to Mordin’s delight, but comms had cut out shortly after, leaving the shipside crew in the dark. The Collector ship was visible from space, its vast bulk lowered into the planet’s gravity well. That was nearly enough evidence by itself to demonstrate the Collectors’ ties to the Reapers. Ships of that class did not enter atmosphere—unless they were Sovereign, or possessed similar abilities to manipulate mass effect fields. Miranda had made a note of it for her report, good distraction from her anxiety. She didn’t doubt Shepard’s competence, not at all, but Shepard had taken Jack, who was an unknown, and Shepard’s question, “What’s Plan B?” kept returning to her mind. Losing Shepard to the Collectors now would be... an unnecessary setback.

 

She didn’t let her worries show, however, though she’d had to devote some small amount of effort to maintaining a calm demeanor. She let Jacob be the one to mutter and pace to himself, as he did, deflecting any unwanted attention she might draw from the rest of the crew.

 

It had been a tremendous relief when the ground team had finally reestablished contact, but even then they’d not had nearly enough information. Miranda had had to rely on EDI’s bland reports of heavy action on the ground, but the AI had been principally occupied with correcting the targeting errors in the defense array. And then, finally, when the Collector ship took off, sending Moreau into defensive alert before the vast ship retreated, Shepard had turned _off_ her audio link, only to request a pickup a few minutes later in terse, tense tones. She returned to the _Normandy_ with an expression of set fury; Jack was snarling; and Vakarian—well, looked much as turians always did.

 

“Shepard,” Miranda began, itching to know what had happened.

 

Shepard’s hand slashed through the air. “Later.”

 

“Shepard, it’s vital that we debrief—”

 

“ _Later_ ,” she snapped, all commander, and stalked into the elevator, hitting the controls before anyone could follow her.

 

Miranda rounded on the other two members of the ground team. “My office. Now.”

 

Jack bared her teeth, but Vakarian fell in behind Miranda without a word, and the scrawny biotic followed, with palpable reluctance.

 

They were no more forthcoming now that she actually had them before her desk, though. Jack stared back, her dark eyes challenging; Vakarian’s demeanor was as bland as usual. Or—no, he fidgeted, slightly, under Miranda’s gaze, lifting a hand to scratch absently at the bandaged right side of his face. His hand dropped as he noticed her regard. “The countermeasures for the seeker swarms worked,” he offered.

 

“We could tell that almost immediately,” Miranda replied sharply. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about. What happened after that?”

 

He rolled his shoulders, his armor creaking, and stretched his neck from side to side. The turian was never this antsy. Not around her, anyway. He usually maintained a professional demeanor to match her own. “We proceeded through the colony. We encountered husks on the ground, as well as several unfamiliar units. I can supply a recording so you can review the visual data. The majority of colonists appeared to have been loaded onto the Collector vessel already—”

 

“Thank you,” Miranda said. “I will review the data. What concerns me at the moment is what happened to put Shepard in such a mood. Is it the loss of the colonists?”

 

Vakarian shifted in place. Miranda stared at him, but got no further response. When she turned her attention to Jack, she rolled her eyes. “Fuck this,” Jack announced. She pushed herself out of the chair and stalked toward the door. “No one has to answer your fucking questions, cheerleader. Shepard can fight with her boyfriend without your say-so.”

 

She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t rise to the bait, but she couldn’t help herself: “Jack,” she snapped, in a warning tone. The younger woman extended a tattooed middle finger in her direction and headed out the door. Miranda gritted her teeth and turned back to Vakarian. “Boyfriend? What _happened_?”

 

He sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. The gesture took her aback; he’d never looked more human. “He’s not her boyfriend.”

 

“ _Who?_ ” she said, nearly fed up with the deflections.

 

“Kaidan Alenko. He said some... intemperate things.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Staff Commander Alenko?”

 

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes and his gaze locked on hers suddenly, sharp and raptor-like. “You knew he was down there, didn’t you? Shepard said it was in her briefing from your boss.”

 

“I did,” she said, not missing his choice of pronoun. “’Intemperate’ hardly seems characteristic of him, though. His record suggests rather that he’s cautious and measured to a fault.” Alenko’s dossier was as familiar to her as that of any of Shepard’s former crew; to her knowledge, the idea of approaching and recruiting him had been broached, and rejected.

 

“Maybe you missed the part where he views Cerberus as an enemy,” Vakarian returned. His mandibles shifted, revealing the points of his teeth.

 

“Ah,” she said, running through potential consequences in her mind.

 

He snorted. “Yeah. Well. Words were exchanged.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

She tapped her stylus lightly against the desk. “It might. If the Commander’s current state of mind is compromised...”

 

“She’ll be fine,” he said, but she thought he didn’t seem quite certain. “She’ll work it out.”

 

“What did he say?” Miranda repeated.

 

The silence lengthened for a moment. She kept her eyes fixed on his. Turians generally appreciated direct eye contact. If she had to stare him down, she would. At length, he shrugged, without breaking eye contact. “I don’t know what else you’d expect. He wanted to know where she’d been for two years. He wasn’t too happy to hear about Cerberus. He’d heard rumors she was back.” He regarded Miranda with a hard expression. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about those rumors, would you?”

 

“Our missions haven’t been what you might call ‘low profile,’” Miranda pointed out.

 

There was a brief pause while he turned that one over. “True enough,” he allowed.

 

Miranda considered. “You’re sure they weren’t... involved? That’s not why she’s so upset?”

 

His brow plates and mandibles drew in. “Gossip said he was interested, if you believe gossip. But no, I’m sure they weren’t. He called her a traitor. She’d take that hard coming from anyone.”

 

She considered. “EDI, where is Commander Shepard now? Is she still in her quarters?”

 

“No, Operative Lawson. Commander Shepard is now in the cargo bay’s workout area.”

 

“Someone should go talk to her,” she decided.

 

Vakarian shook his head. “There’s more.”

 

She had to control her expression at this volunteering of information. “About Alenko?”

 

“No. About the Collectors.” He touched his visor. “I’m sending you the data. They—knew her. Said her name. Targeted her, even if it wasn’t tactically advisable. They—it, maybe. Something controlling them.”

 

This time she couldn’t control her expression. Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. “A Reaper?”

 

His shoulders rose and fell. “Maybe. Maybe some sort of hive mind.”

 

“I’ll review the data. In the meantime, go down to the cargo bay and see if she wants to talk.” She might as well take advantage of Shepard’s tie to Vakarian, after all.

 

“What? Why me?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

 

“Come now, who else would you suggest? We both know she doesn’t talk to Chambers. Surely she’d rather talk to someone she trusts.” She gave him a tight smile. “You know perfectly well that’s you.”

 

Vakarian shifted in his chair. “We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship.”

 

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Really? Joker says you and she were good friends. And you know Alenko.”

 

His mandibles twitched and then flattened against his jaw. “Yeah, but—we don’t—she’s not—”

 

Miranda took a moment to revel in Vakarian’s discomfiture. He was usually poised, even cocky. Skilled tactician and deadly sharpshooter he might be, but a hint of emotional complexity, and here he was squirming like a teenager. “I’m not saying go down there and ask to talk about her feelings, Vakarian. Distract her. Give her something to hit. If she _does_ want to talk, listen. That’s not beyond your capabilities, I’m sure.”

 

His mandibles flicked out again before his expression grew tight. “I’m not going to report back to you, whatever she says.”

 

“I don’t expect you to.” Miranda leaned back, deliberately relaxed. EDI would inform her of anything critical to the mission, at the very least, and perhaps more. “Believe it or not, I’m concerned for Shepard’s well-being. She’s in a unique position and under a great deal of stress.”

 

“A unique position,” he repeated, tone flat enough to speak volumes by itself.

 

“We could not be certain what the psychological ramifications of the Lazarus Project would be. She appears to have adjusted commendably well, but there are always concerns.” It was almost better than Miranda had dared to hope for, in fact. Shepard’s personality appeared to be within the parameters of her previous personality profile, and she seemed, according to Chambers, to have a strong sense of self, and to have integrated her resurrection into her sense of the world quite admirably. It was a relief, even if the woman was damnably difficult to deal with. If Alenko, and whatever else had happened on Horizon, damaged that stability—

 

Vakarian stared at her. She looked back, unblinking. Finally he lifted his chin and said, “Fine. I’ll go talk to her.”

 

Miranda nodded. “Excellent. Please do remain available for a full mission debriefing later.”

 

#

 

After some hesitation, Garrus changed into workout clothes before making his way down to the hold.

 

Shepard was working over a punching bag and muttering to herself. She, too, had changed into plain black workout clothes that left her arms bare, but she hadn’t otherwise cleaned up; Garrus glimpsed a shiny patch of medi-gel on her shoulder, and pieces of hair were falling out of her usual knot. He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but he thought he could hazard a decent guess.

 

“That bag wearing any face in particular, Shepard?” he called, heading across the cargo bay toward her.

 

She gave the bag one last slam and caught it as it swung back toward her. “Garrus. Did you draw the short straw?”

 

He stopped. “What?”

 

Shepard shook her head, turning to face him. “Did you come down here of your own accord, or did you get picked for it?” Her lips stretched into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The odd reddish fissures in her cheeks split and crinkled as she did.

 

Garrus absently scratched at his own scars. He didn’t have a lot of sensation on the right side of his face, making it hard to resist the urge to poke at the bandage. “I... well.” Now that he was here, he found he didn’t want to say that it was Lawson’s idea. “Are you all right, Shepard?”

 

Her eyebrows pulled down and her mouth drew in. “Let’s see. My own people are investigating me. Not sure I can blame them for that. Whatever’s running the Collectors knows my name.”

 

Garrus shifted his weight, uneasy. “Yeah.”

 

“It has to have been a Reaper,” she said, quietly.

 

He’d suggested some sort of hive mind to Miranda, but his conclusions ran much the same as Shepard’s. “I don’t see what else it could have been.”

 

She twitched, a sort of full-body shiver. “Yeah. And we lost half the colony, and my former lieutenant called me a fucking traitor.”

 

“Yeah, I remember.” His own relief to see Kaidan unhurt had quickly been complicated by his surprise and irritation at his response to Shepard. Suspicion and questions he could understand, but Kaidan had hardly even given her a chance to speak.

 

“So overall it was a _great_ fucking day.”

 

Shepard didn’t swear often, Garrus reflected, as she looked down at the floor and took a deep breath. When she looked up again, her gaze was firm. “I’m not turning my back on these colonists. If the Alliance won’t help them, I will.” Her voice was flat, hard. Absolute. “If I have to compromise myself to do it—well. I guess that’s what I have to do.”

 

He knew the broad outlines of Shepard’s past. She’d only ever talked about it in the briefest terms, but he knew what had happened to the colony she’d grown up on. “I get that, Shepard.”

 

She gave him a half smile. “I guess you do.” She shook her head. “He acted like I was betraying _him._ Personally. I don’t get where my being alive is a personal affront to him. I know Cerberus is a hard sell. I can’t blame him for that. I just... damn it all.” She pushed half-heartedly at the bag. “He didn’t even let me explain.”

 

Garrus hesitated. He and Kaidan Alenko had been friendly, once, back on the SR-1, watching each other’s backs in the field and comparing tech specs off it. That had crumbled after Shepard... after the ship was lost, like everything else. Their last conversation had been sharp. Garrus had been angry, Kaidan defensive, hewing to the official line. “He always struck me as an Alliance man,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I don’t know what ‘reports’ he was hearing, but he believes in the uniform.”

 

“True blue,” said Shepard. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it. I used to be more like that myself. Still, what does he think? I faked my death to go rogue? I was a Cerberus agent all along? I guess I thought he knew me better than that.” She crossed a few steps to a stack of crates and picked up a bottle of water she’d put there. Taking a few swigs, she sat down on the crate. Her shoulders slumped. She looked oddly... deflated, as if the energy and frustration that had propelled her a few minutes earlier had vanished.

 

Garrus tried to think whether he had ever seen Shepard this downcast before. He came up empty. She normally projected confidence, or at least vitality, dynamism. The closest he could come was when he’d first come aboard and she’d come to visit him in the battery. Then, she’d showed moments of uncertainty—vulnerability, even, when she talked about her death—but not quite like this. Maybe Liara had seen this side of her before, but he certainly hadn’t. It was strange to see her like this, but it didn’t unsettle him as much as he would have thought. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, searching for something he could say that might bolster her a little. “He might come around. Once he has a chance to think things over.” He wasn’t entirely sure about that; Kaidan struck him as the type to over-think things.

 

“Maybe.” Shepard let out a long breath, not quite a sigh. “He seems pretty set on jumping to the worst conclusions, though.”

 

Garrus approached and settled down on the crate next to her. “He always liked things clear. And after what we saw of Cerberus...”

 

“I know.” She blew out another breath. “I remember. All those shitty experiments. Murder of an admiral. It was sickening, and I’m not taking it lightly. Which is exactly why he should realize I’d have to have a really good reason to be here at all.”

 

Garrus hummed in assent. Shepard made a sour face, her nose wrinkling and her mouth turning down. “Not like I had a lot of choice. What about you, though?”

 

He blinked. She’d turned toward him, leaning her head back against the taller stack of crates next to them, and her expression had turned calmer. Inquisitive. “What about me?”

 

“You saw all the same shit Kaidan did. Plus, they’re a pro-human group. What made you willing to sign on?”

 

He chuckled, without real mirth. “For a pro-human group, they really like to experiment on humans.”

 

Shepard scowled. “You got that right. But you haven’t answered the question.”

 

He felt self-conscious under her steady gaze. “You asked me.”

 

Her eyebrows went up. “That’s all it took? Damn. You might need a better sense of self-preservation, Garrus.”

 

“Hell if I was going to leave you to deal with this alone.” It came out harsher than he meant. That particular note in his sub-vocals made it sound like he was growling at her. He cleared his throat and glanced away, embarrassed, registering how startled she looked: eyes wide, jaw a little slack.

 

“That’s, uh— I appreciate that. A lot. Thank you.” Her voice had softened. She didn’t seem alarmed by this tone, so Garrus dared to look at her again, and found he wasn’t sure what to make of her current expression. She caught his glance and smiled. “So you weren’t worried I’d lost my mind? Or wasn’t really me?”

 

“No, I knew it was you.” Honesty compelled him to add, “Well, at first I thought maybe _I’d_ finally cracked.”

 

Shepard laughed. “Nice.”

 

“Once I was sure I wasn’t hallucinating, though...” He raised his shoulders. “You moved like you. You sound like you.” There were a hundred subtle things about her expression, how she carried herself, how she handled a weapon; he couldn’t have put them all into words, but they all gave him that sense of recognition that went right down to his bones. “I wasn’t sure while I was, um, coming around again. Thought maybe I hadn’t remembered right. Even then I thought, if it wasn’t you, well. I should be the one to take care of it.”

 

Shepard raised her eyebrows again, but she was still smiling. “You figured you’d take fake-me out, huh?”

 

He shifted uncomfortably where he sat. Maybe he shouldn’t have said any of this. Shepard nudged him with her knee. “Hey, it’s okay. I appreciate that, too.”

 

He’d expected a joke, not... sincerity. Her mood seemed to be changing more rapidly than he could keep up with. Maybe that’s what led him to the next admission. “I hacked into Miranda’s files.”

 

“Did you?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright and sharp. “What did you find?”

 

“Not—” He coughed. “Her private transmissions to the Illusive Man are under tighter encryption. I’m still working on those. I meant, her files on you. The... what did she call it. The Lazarus Project.”

 

Shepard’s eyes widened, and then her face grew tight, her expression shuttered. The transformation was almost painful to watch. She leaned back against the crates behind her, but her shoulders were still stiff. “Oh. Those.”

 

“Yeah.” The files had been difficult going. The medicine and neuroscience involved got over his head very quickly, although he got the sense that Lawson viewed the human body she’d been working with much as he might view a broken piece of tech. Worse, there had been pictures.

 

Shepard took a deep breath. “What did you learn?”

 

Garrus grimaced. “If I’d had any doubts about who you were, that would have dispelled them. That would be one hell of an elaborate hoax to throw together.”

 

“You should send them to Kaidan,” she muttered. Then she shook her head. “Don’t. I’d rather that report wasn’t spread around.”

 

He nodded. His instincts matched hers there; looking at the files had been stomach-churning, but also made him feel as though he were trespassing, prying into something he had no business knowing about. He’d put the files aside quickly. “I’m sorry. I should have left them private, but—”

 

“It’s fine. I don’t mind you knowing. I’d rather not...” She shook herself. “I don’t want to know. Maybe it’s short-sighted, but I don’t want to know how they did it.” Her expression relaxed somewhat, though her forehead was still furrowed. “Point Kasumi at those super-encrypted transmissions, though. That sounds like her kind of project.”

 

“I will.” He hesitated, his attention caught by the idea that she didn’t mind what he’d started to think of as an invasion of her privacy. He wasn’t quite sure what _that_ said about either of them.

 

While he was trying to think what to say, Shepard stretched one arm up and behind her head, and a sly grin spread across her face. “So, you think you _could_ take me out, hm?”

 

With some effort, he shook himself out of his thoughts, and grinned back. “I think I could take you at a distance.”

 

She scoffed. “That’s cheating.”

 

“Do I need to explain to you the difference between sniping and cheating again?”

 

“Close quarters would be a different story.”

 

“True,” he admitted. “Think it might be an even match without biotics, though. Now _that’s_ cheating.”

 

“Even match? Really? I seem to remember a certain time with the rachni—”

 

“It’s not like rachni are easy to grapple with. I’ve gotten more practice at hand-to-hand in the last two years, too.”

 

“Hm.” She looked calculating. “Not going to give up the biotics, though.”

 

“Not even in a friendly match?” Garrus was getting genuinely curious at this point.

 

Shepard looked thoughtful, her gaze traveling over him, but then she smiled and shook her head. “Nah, not now. Think I’d like to get cleaned up.” She pushed herself to a standing position. “Thanks for the talk, though.”

 

“Any time, Shepard.”

 

He followed her to the elevator. Oddly, that seemed to startle her, or at least, her eyebrows went up when she turned around to find him boarding the elevator as well, and she laughed as they both reached for the controls. She seemed a lot more at ease, though. He was glad if he’d been able to help her... even if he had to admit, grudgingly, that Lawson had been right.


	7. Chapter 7

“It looks as though our new arrivals are settling in well,” Kelly reported cheerfully, perched in the chair on the other side of Miranda’s desk.

 

Kelly was always cheerful. Some mornings, like this one, Miranda required more than the usual quantity of coffee to prepare herself for her daily briefing with the yeoman. It didn’t help that she’d been up late installing new encryption protocols. Kasumi Goto was getting perilously close to cracking the previous codes. Miranda had faith in Cerberus’ encryption. She did. Then again, it might not have been subject to the concentrated attention of a hacker of Goto’s caliber before. The thief was bored, she suspected, and had taken Shepard’s hint to her about Miranda’s transmissions to the Illusive Man as a mandate. Of course she had. It might not even matter much; there was, frankly, little on Miranda’s end of the transmissions that she wouldn’t say to Shepard’s face, if asked. And what she was getting from the HQ end of the transmissions was usually unrevealing in the extreme. Perhaps she should just turn them over to Goto and let her see if she could get some subtly stated objective out of them. To date, the Illusive Man was content to let Shepard carry on being Shepard, ignoring Miranda’s period requests for greater authority or to re-install surveillance or to be able to override EDI’s judgment on what constituted “privacy.” She’d heard Shepard’s and Vakarian’s conversation in the cargo bay, though, or at least, enough of it. (The audio pick-ups weren’t ideally positioned.) So she knew where Goto’s latest security-cracking project had come from. She didn’t even mind that Vakarian (and now Goto, too) had broken into the Lazarus Project medical files. Let them. If they needed to reassure themselves that Shepard was Shepard, so be it. Dr. Chakwas had all the most relevant files already, in any case. There was some potential risk, if the procedures developed for Lazarus became more widely available, but Miranda wasn’t entirely sure the techniques they had used would work in anything other than extraordinary cases. The quick and prolonged exposure of Shepard’s body to deep cold was probably what had made her neurological resurrection possible.

 

“Miranda?”

 

She blinked and took another swallow of her coffee before directing a smile at Kelly. “Apologies. Settling in well, you say?”

 

“Yes. Samara requires little, she says. She seems to spend most of her free time in meditation, and doesn’t have a problem with the normal human rations.”

 

“Good.” Miranda was aware of Samara’s meditations. The camera in starboard observation had _not_ been disabled. She was rather envious of how long the asari could concentrate, especially maintaining that orb of dark energy. It was extraordinarily impressive—but then, the asari had likely learned the trick of it when humans were still using steam power.

 

“And Thane—” Kelly sighed, eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, it’s so sad about his condition. He sent a request for some supplies he uses as remedies. Dr. Chakwas has examined him, I think.”

 

“He should be fit for combat,” said Miranda, in possession of the doctor’s report on the drell. “We’ll acquire whatever supplies are necessary, of course.”

 

“He’s so intriguing,” Kelly murmured. “Don’t you think it’s sad? About the Kepral’s? He can’t be that old!”

 

“It’s a common condition for drell,” Miranda said, her smile growing thinner. “You can’t expect to uproot a species from an arid planet to an aquatic one without some difficulties in adjustment.”

 

“Still.” Kelly sighed again.

 

“And the rest of the specialists?” Miranda asked pointedly, to catch her attention.

 

“Right.” Kelly blinked and refocused on her data pad. “Kasumi’s keeping herself busy and seems in good spirits.”

 

In good spirits cracking Miranda’s files, she thought darkly.

 

“Zaeed’s actually been getting out of the lower decks and playing cards with some of the crew.”

 

Miranda snorted. “As if he didn’t have enough of Cerberus’ credits.”

 

Kelly chuckled. “I certainly wouldn’t play Skyllian Five with him, but it’s Donnelly’s funeral if he wants to.”

 

Miranda laughed and took another sip of coffee.

 

“I thought there might be a bit of tension between him and Garrus, but they seem to be managing all right.”

 

“Tension over what?” Miranda asked, coming to alert. She could think of any number of causes, but she’d like to know the specifics.

 

Kelly gave her an unusually direct look. “I don’t think Garrus likes mercenaries much.”

 

“Mm.” Miranda frowned. “I can have a word with Massani.”

 

“I don’t think it’s necessary. Zaeed had a couple of conversations that were... typical male posturing sorts of things. Garrus didn’t really rise to the bait. They seem to have settled into a civil working relationship. I don’t know if they spoke privately.”

 

“Well.” Miranda opened her hand. “No need to intervene, then.”

 

“No. Grunt is—” Kelly took a deep breath. “—not as much of a difficulty as I’d feared. It took some... acclimatizing, but he listens to Shepard and he’s really rather eager to learn.” She smiled. “It’s almost charming. He’s like a child.”

 

Miranda’s eyebrows went up. “A child who’s nearly seven feet tall and weighs half a ton.”

 

“I know. It’s not the size, it’s the demeanor. It’s fascinating to see him explore the world. His tank imprinting seems to have been very... limited.”

 

Miranda gave Kelly her best skeptical look, but the yeoman—and psychologist, she reminded herself—returned it without blinking. “So, in your judgment, he doesn’t currently pose a danger to the crew. Noncombat crew included.”

 

“That’s correct. Now Jack—” Kelly frowned. “Jack is volatile, and seems especially agitated the last few days. Shepard went down to have a talk with her.”

 

“And?” Where Vakarian and Mordin had disabled the electronic surveillance in the battery and the lab, Jack had simply blown up the camera monitoring the crawl space. The dark spots around the ship irritated Miranda, but placing a new camera would be tantamount to declaring war with Jack, and that she was not yet willing to do.

 

Kelly pursed her lips. “I’m not sure of the outcome. Jack... bears watching, but she keeps to herself and doesn’t pick fights with the crew. She fights with the other ground team members, or spars, rather. I think Shepard’s on top of the situation.”

 

“Let’s hope so.” Miranda made a note to raise the topic with Shepard herself at her next opportunity. “What about Vakarian?”

 

“He’s been through a lot. I think he’s in need of grief counseling.”

 

Miranda tried to imagine anyone sitting the turian down for a therapeutic chat. The concept alone was a strain. Kelly went on, “He seems to have adjusted to the crew, however. Reserved—he talks to Shepard more than anyone else—but he seems stable enough, psychologically speaking.”

 

“Good, then.”

 

“Actually, the other person who seems upset right now is Jacob. He seems much tenser than usual.” Kelly’s gaze was suddenly more direct than Miranda was ready for. “Do you have any idea why?”

 

Miranda dropped her eyes and took a long, slow swallow. Her coffee cup was almost empty. She reminded herself that Kelly had been personally chosen by the Illusive Man, and reported to him directly; it did not entirely do to underestimate her, in spite of her bubbly persona. She looked up again to meet Kelly’s eyes, direct and guileless. “No. Perhaps Shepard should have a talk with him, too.”

 

“I’ve already suggested it to her.”

 

“I’m sure she’ll sort it out, then.”

 

They closed with the last few odds and ends of business, and Kelly left. Miranda turned back to her console.

 

She’d done it for him, after all. He was the one who’d used to talk about wanting closure, those rare occasions their dislike of their respective fathers had come up, during quiet moments of conversation. Miranda wasn’t sure she believed in _closure_. But it had seemed important to Jacob, when he spoke, haltingly, about the long-missing Ronald Taylor. She knew that loose end had nagged at him, years ago. He was the one who had brought it up more recently, too, just after the Horizon debriefing.

 

“Makes you think, being on a mission like this,” Jacob had said. The two of them had been alone in the mess hall, fueling their respective biotics with a late snack before turning in. Their habits still fell in sync, occasionally. Likely it was the effect of working together so long.

 

“Oh?” Miranda had said, flatly. He had a habit of doing that, throwing out tidbits of conversation as if fishing for responses. If she gave him a bit of encouragement, he’d carry on; if she didn’t, he’d keep giving her sighs and looks until she finally relented. It was tiresome of him.

 

He’d shrugged broad shoulders. “Yeah. You know. Suicide mission, a lot on the line... people are gonna want to make sure their affairs are in order. Tie up all the loose ends.”

 

Miranda’s lip curled. She didn’t like him calling it a suicide mission. There was no need to presuppose the end. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said neutrally.

 

“You know I am,” he said with a flash of dark eyes.

 

“And what are your loose ends, Jacob?” she asked, wary. They’d ended things some time ago. By mutual agreement, she thought, calm and polite, like adults. He’d been scrupulously civil and professional since. They’d managed to maintain a good working relationship, and Jacob never presumed too far upon their former intimacy. It was rather more sensitive of him than she’d given him credit for, once upon a time. She was glad enough to acknowledge her error. Silently, since they never spoke of it. Of course, if he were about to confess some deep-seated and untimely passion for her, she would have to reevaluate.

 

He shrugged again, though. “I don’t have too many regrets. Just... questions I never had answered, you know?”

 

“Good,” she had said, brisk. But she hadn’t forgotten. It was only the work of a few minutes, when she had trouble sleeping, to comb through Cerberus comm channels in search of that missing vessel. Serendipitous that it had actually come up, but not hard to find at all, not hard to slide it anonymously into Jacob’s message chain. He’d want to know, wouldn’t he? Get that closure he’d talked about. Fulfilling the last of her old debts and promises to him, perhaps, clearing her own slate.

 

She stared at her list of messages without seeing them, for a moment, pondering the elusive concept of _closure_. Would it do her any good to see her father again? To tell him to his face what she thought of him? Of his plans for her and Oriana, of what he’d done with the rejected sisters, the ones who hadn’t measured up to Miranda’s standard? To stand in front of him and show him what she’d made of herself?

 

No. She was performing exactly as expected, wasn’t she? Advancing the cause of humanity, after all. She’d been designed and cultivated and shaped for this, her genes less random than a purebred racing horse. It wasn’t her _spirit_ and _personality_ that mattered, no matter what Shepard said: Miranda had been built to have superior intelligence, less need for sleep, greater physical resilience, more strength than her slender frame suggested. Biotics, of course you couldn’t have a perfect human in this day and age without biotics; that was clearly the next great step in human evolution. And the looks. Oh yes, the looks, flawless skin, height and figure designed to Henry Lawson’s exacting standards, calculated to fit the ratio most appealing to most humans, or at least most heterosexual human men, and recessive blue eyes, why not, and especially striking with her dark hair.

 

Miranda shook herself and pushed away from her desk, setting her teeth together and pacing in the confines of her office. She’d never had a skin blemish in her life, a mark of artificiality if there ever was one, and she’d been trained on how to _maximize her appeal_ by the time she was sixteen. What more would her father have had her do, if she’d grown any older in his care? Nearly twenty years and she still hated him for it, for every minute of her petted, stultifying, cultivated, hothouse upbringing. And yet she had to be grateful, all the same, that he’d made her what she was, for the opportunities and accomplishments that she could never have had if she weren’t Henry Lawson’s finest creation.

 

But watch him do the same to Oriana? No. That, she wouldn’t do. That, she’d done for herself, and for her sister. She could take a certain satisfaction in that, surely, how she’d surprised her father, outwitted him and his guards, and gotten herself and her sister away to somewhere safe.

 

She cursed her father, thoroughly and eloquently, and threw in a curse for Jacob, too, since it was his damned need for _closure_ that had brought her thoughts back to the man. She hoped whatever he got out of the message she’d sent him was worth it.

 

She cursed her father again when she got the message from the contacts she set as watchdogs on his activities. His agents were getting closer to identifying Oriana’s location. His people had been sniffing around before, but she’d been able to misdirect them, keeping Oriana’s freedom from their father safe. This time, when she was occupied with this mission, she’d have to take other measures. Relocating the family would be the safest option. They had been on Illium for some time; it would be plausible for a transfer or other job opportunity to open up. It was one more problem to deal with, but not insoluble one; Miranda sent a barrage of messages out to her contacts to see what could be set up, and tried not to fret as she returned her attention to her work.

 

#

 

Miranda started when Shepard came blazing into her office a few days later. She hadn’t even cleaned up since the mission; she was still in full armor, hair damp and matted, and the armor was _dripping_ , and there were stains across Shepard’s legs and chest which, by the trajectory and shade, were likely varren blood.

 

“What did you know about Jack’s background?” Shepard demanded, arms crossed over her chest.

 

Miranda slowly pushed her chair back and looked up. She’d seen Shepard resolute, in combat fury, even on the verge of coming to pieces after Vakarian’s injury. She’d never directed anger like this at Miranda before. “She was raised and trained in a Cerberus facility before she broke out,” she said carefully and distinctly. “There were procedures intended to develop and hone her biotic potential. She’s said as much.”

 

“ _Procedures_ ,” Shepard spat. Miranda blinked. “They were _children_ , Miranda. They took young kids and shipped them in in crates, packed them in tiny cells, and _experimented_ on them. They made them fight as if they were varren, conditioned them to like it, let them kill each other. Kids. Young kids. Jack was just the beneficiary of whatever experiments they did on the others, first. How do you justify any of that?”

 

“It wasn’t Cerberus,” Miranda said, trying to keep a grip on her patience. Shepard _would_ insist on viewing rogue cells as the real thing.

 

Shepard took one step forward and planted a gauntleted fist on Miranda’s desk. Her eyes blazed. “What makes you so sure of that?”

 

Miranda rose, aware of the peculiar crackling sensation of Shepard’s biotics. Neither of them was flaring, but Shepard was a good deal closer than she usually allowed herself to go. “I inquired when Jack came aboard, and when you told me about her... request. The Teltin facility went rogue. The Illusive Man did not have full knowledge of the experiments conducted there.”

 

Shepard straightened, re-crossing her arms. “Did he tell you that himself?”

 

Miranda’s lips thinned. “He did. Did you find contradictory evidence?”

 

There was a beat’s pause before Shepard answered. “No. _But_. Logs on-site indicated that they were being pressured to come up with results. If the Illusive Man didn’t know—which I personally wouldn’t take his word for—he still set up the conditions that pushed their more extreme behavior.”

 

Miranda wrinkled her nose. “He’s not responsible for the misdeeds of some underlings, Commander.”

 

“Isn’t he?” She leaned forward, her jaw thrust forward. “They were trying to create the ultimate human biotic, but how many biotic kids did they abuse and lose doing that?”

 

“You’re taking this very hard,” Miranda observed, with some caution.

 

Shepard snorted. “Yeah, I am. You weren’t there. You didn’t see.” She shook her head. “It was sick, all of it. And it could have been me. Or you. Or Jacob.” All three of them were too old for the Teltin project, but Miranda thought it best to hold her tongue as Shepard went on. “Or kids just like us.”

 

“It’s obvious mistakes were made,” Miranda said. “I’m not doubting that. But it wasn’t—”

 

“—Cerberus,” Shepard finished. “Yeah. I get that you want to think that.”

 

Exasperated, Miranda knit her brows together. She and Shepard stared at each other across the desk. Then Shepard ran her hands through her hair, disarranging its usual tidy arrangement. “I have to go clean up. We’ll debrief later.”

 

When Miranda reviewed the mission reports, she could understand why Shepard was upset. The evidence they’d found in the facility was damning testimony, even if Jack’s recollections might have been more melodramatic than strictly true. Alone in her office, Miranda frowned at the screen. The Teltin researchers had unquestionably been abusive, stupid, and inefficient. There was nothing to indicate the Illusive Man had been aware of their foolish experimentation and conditioning program, however. With Shepard’s help, Jack had eliminated the rest of the evidence with her bomb.

 

She had never run any of her own projects so poorly. She could be hard on her people, and she knew it; she didn’t tend to make friends of her subordinates, with only a few exceptions. But she’d never driven her people like _that_. She’d use threats where necessary, and she wasn’t afraid to follow through, but she much preferred finding talented people and then giving them incentives to do what they did best. Intriguing projects, competitive pay, workspaces designed for their tastes. Her jaw tightened. She still hadn’t forgiven Wilson for taking out the entire Lazarus team; what a waste of intelligent and valuable personnel.

 

Still, the fallout from Jack’s little raid on Teltin was not particularly significant. Jack must have been under orders to avoid Miranda; she snarled or made snide comments if they encountered each other in the mess hall, and pointedly ignored Miranda during full-team briefings, but she had made no further move. Vakarian hadn’t raised the subject with Miranda; she doubted he would do so, especially if he knew that Shepard had already discussed it with her. He appeared on edge, though. It might not be related; Kelly reported that he’d gotten a message that had left him out of sorts lately. Shepard hadn’t seen fit to inform Miranda whether there was a problem. She’d looked at Vakarian’s message herself, of course, but it was well encrypted, looking like it relied on some sort of personal key. She had to respect that level of paranoia, and she hadn’t cared quite enough to take the time to hack it. Shepard had set their course for the Citadel, making vague statements about necessary business as well as a run for parts, weapons, and supplies; Miranda had her suspicions, but she supposed as long as personal errands didn’t distract from their central mission, they were acceptable. If they _did_ distract, she’d have to raise the situation with Shepard, and possibly the Illusive Man.

 

#

 

Miranda had stepped out of her office for another cup of coffee when Vakarian blew through the mess hall like a cold wind. Her civil greeting died on her lips as he strode by, ignoring her and the two crewmen chatting at a nearby table entirely, and all but stormed down the corridor to the main battery. The lock turned red behind him.

 

Puzzled, Miranda stared at the door, and turned to find the two crew members—Goldstein and Patel—also staring with wide eyes. Goldstein saw her noticing and hastily turned back to her companion, shoulders hunching.

 

Miranda took a sip of her coffee and retrieved a protein bar from the supply. She hesitated for a moment, searching her mind for some explanation. Vakarian and Shepard had left the _Normandy_ earlier that day, but Shepard hadn’t indicated what errand they might be doing.

 

While she considered, Shepard herself appeared, wheeling around the corner at speed. Miranda, facing her, could see the exact moment she registered the locked door at the end of the corridor. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes widened, and her shoulders tensed. She was still in her combat armor. Miranda glanced her over quickly, but there was no visible damage. Goldstein, facing Shepard, stared, leaning forward to whisper to Patel. Miranda shot her a glare, and the woman flinched.

 

She turned back to Shepard, and stepped in close just as Shepard started to turn away. “Shepard,” she said in a low voice, not meant for the ears of the crew, “what happened?”

 

A series of expressions flickered quickly over Shepard’s face. It finished by settling, nearly, into a professional mask. Her jaw tightened, her shoulders settled, her eyebrows drew down slightly. Her eyes remained troubled. “I... it’s a personal matter, Miranda.”

 

Miranda frowned. Shepard didn’t react, holding her gaze steadily. But she also didn’t resist when Miranda curled one hand around her arm and drew her toward her office, away from the listening ears. “Personal?” she asked once the door closed behind them. “Personal like Jack blowing up a former Cerberus facility? Do I need to activate Cerberus assets to cover whatever happened? Pragia was one thing, but we need to take more precautions in settled areas, Shepard.”

 

Shepard winced. She pulled her arm free and crossed her arms, drawing herself upright. “No. It’s... all right, there was some fire exchanged at one of the ward warehouses. We notified C-Sec.”

 

“C-Sec?” Miranda exclaimed. “What were you thinking, Shepard? We need to manage that sort of matter ourselves.”

 

Shepard shook her head. “No. It’s handled. The warehouse was a base for smuggling and forgery. We did C-Sec a favor.”

 

“All right.” Miranda frowned at Shepard. She’d still prefer dealing with C-Sec on her own terms. “I should think taking down a smuggler would make you happy, Shepard, not looking like you lost your best friend.”

 

She meant it as a joke, but Shepard flinched like she’d been struck, and her face drained of color. Miranda almost reached toward her in support, but Shepard’s shoulders tightened and she crossed her arms.

 

“What happened?” Miranda asked again.

 

Shepard’s lips tightened, and Miranda wasn’t sure she was going to speak at all. She waited, nearly holding her breath, and finally Shepard shifted her weight from one foot to the other and said, “Garrus and I had a... personal disagreement. It’s between him and me. It’s not... material to the larger mission.”

 

Miranda tried to take in the idea that Shepard and Vakarian could have a disagreement on anything more severe than the merits of their favorite weapons, much less one that would send the turian stalking off to his lair alone and leave Shepard looking like this. No matter how flinty she was attempting to appear, there was a bleakness in her eyes, a softness, that Miranda wasn’t used to seeing there. She didn’t much like it. “Really,” she said tartly. “Not material to the larger mission? You’re sure whatever this is isn’t going to interfere with the team’s effectiveness and cohesion? If you and Vakarian can’t work together—”

 

Shepard’s cheeks colored. “It’s not like that. We’re professionals, Miranda. We’ll work it out.”

 

Miranda frowned. “If you’re certain.”

 

“I—” Shepard lifted one hand to rub the back of her neck. “Yeah.”

 

She didn’t _sound_ certain. She looked almost lost, and unutterably weary. The cybernetic scars on her cheeks had mostly healed, but that threw into relief how worn she seemed. Her whole demeanor was unsettling, frankly; Shepard usually made a point of seeming optimistic, even indomitable, around the crew. Miranda thought she was better at seeing through it than most of the team, but that just made her more concerned. Almost without thinking, she said, “Shepard, if you need to talk about anything—”

 

Shepard’s mouth pulled to the side, not quite a smile, and she shook her head. “What, I can come cry on your shoulder? I’m a grown-up. I’ll deal. And I’ll let you get back to work.” She stepped back with a firm nod, close enough to trigger the door.

 

It was a marvelously executed retreat, Miranda had to concede that point as the door closed behind Shepard. She frowned at the blank surface, discomfited. She still wanted answers, but she did not want the gossips on the crew to see her chasing Shepard through the crew deck. “EDI.”

 

“Yes, Operative Lawson?”

 

“What can you tell me about Shepard and Vakarian’s activities on the Citadel?” She strolled toward her desk, setting down the coffee and ripping open the protein bar.

 

There was a pause. “Shepard did say it was a private matter. I am not certain she would wish me to reveal their actions.”

 

Miranda set her teeth. “They were in public places, under standard Citadel surveillance. I am concerned with the commander’s well-being and the effectiveness of the combat squad, on which I will need to report to the Illusive Man.”

 

After another brief pause, the AI answered, “Shepard made inquiries at C-Sec regarding a forger known as Fade. They visited a warehouse on Zakera Ward and then took a transit car to the Ward’s factory district. Surveillance devices recorded gunfire. They then took another transit car to Orbital Lounge. Shepard spoke there with an unknown turian for several minutes.”

 

Miranda raised her eyebrows as the account stopped there. “And?”

 

“That is all, Operative Lawson. The turian departed, and Shepard met Vakarian back at their skycar.”

 

Miranda’s eyes narrowed as that sunk in. “Where was he while she was talking to the other turian?”

 

Another pause. “On a nearby balcony.”

 

“On a...” Miranda stopped short, the scene suddenly taking shape in her imagination. “He was going to kill someone on the Citadel?”

 

“That appears to have been the intention.”

 

“And she stopped him?” Miranda shook her head, not sure whether she was more irritated by Vakarian’s scheme or Shepard’s subversion of it. “Do you know what the connection was?”

 

EDI said, “Fragments of recorded conversation indicate that the turian was part of Archangel’s team on Omega.”

 

She frowned, trying to piece together the chain of events. The turian must have bolted, or... no, the mercs back on Omega had spoken of turning one of Archangel’s men. Her eyebrows went up. “Shepard kept Vakarian from killing his traitor?”

 

“That is the logical conclusion.” EDI sounded unusually tentative.

 

“What was she thinking?” Miranda muttered with a sigh, and took a bite of the bar.

 

“Are you inviting my speculation, Operative Lawson?”

 

“No,” she said, swallowing quickly. How like Shepard to create an undesirable rift in the team out of some damned principle. Better to have shot the traitor and moved on, although better to have done it in stealth, not right in the middle of a civilian area on the Citadel. ‘Bring her back just as she was,’ indeed. The Illusive Man should have been careful what he wished for.

 

Sitting down, Miranda reached for her coffee. She had to admit to a grudging respect for Shepard’s integrity, at least. After watching how closely Shepard worked with Vakarian over the last weeks, she never would have suspected that Shepard would deliberately risk that relationship. She hoped that the personal cost for the commander wasn’t too high, and that it didn’t have undesirable ramifications for the mission.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on posting this! I hope to get back to more regular updates on this story. (Also, for the off-screen conversation between Shepard and Garrus, see "L is for Leadership" in Life, Letter by Letter.)

Much as Miranda had grown accustomed to Shepard’s habit of leaving in command of the _Normandy_ while the commander herself led the ground team, she had rather expected things to be different this time. After all, it was an errand for Jacob, and she and Jacob had worked together for a long time. Shepard knew that, even if she didn’t know Miranda had provided Jacob with the information that had led them to the planet Aeia and the wreckage of the _Hugo Gernsback_. Besides, given the way things were between Shepard and Vakarian, she had thought Shepard might want to change up the ground team.

 

Matters between the commander and the turian were obviously strained, ever since they’d left the Citadel, and it altered the entire atmosphere of the crew, to a degree that dismayed Miranda. She had not previously thought of the turian as especially gregarious, but now that he was largely confining himself to the battery, it was noticeable that in recent weeks, he’d actually been a visible, if generally low-key, part of the crew. He now timed his meals to avoid Shepard, which resulted in Shepard’s mood seeming much dampened from her normal state. Jacob had been tense and restive, too, alternating between talking more loudly than usual and tight-jawed silence. They were all doing their jobs, with a punctiliousness that was almost aggressive. Squad briefings had been especially stiff, with Vakarian standing as far from Shepard as possible, usually avoiding looking her in the eye, while Shepard kept her face tightly professional. Gone was the more relaxed, even occasionally joking, atmosphere of the last few weeks, since the crew had started to come together.

 

Miranda had thought, therefore, that Shepard might opt for another teammate to accompany herself and Jacob, but no, she’d called on Vakarian again. The turian had blinked at that, mandibles twitching, and Miranda hadn’t quite been able to conceal her surprise either, but no one else had batted an eye. As the team headed to the armory to gear up, Miranda wondered what Shepard was about. Was she trying to force the turian into her company? Demonstrate that nothing need change in their professional relationship, at least? What purpose did it serve? Miranda couldn’t be sure; she simply hoped that Shepard knew what she was doing. This time, though, she doubted it.

 

It was more irritating to cool her heels than usual. She could admit it: she had a personal interest in this. She glanced at the feeds from the ground team, which were uneventful. They’d found the wreckage of the ship, and the recently activated distress beacon, and not much more. Indications were that Ronald Taylor had survived the initial crash, and in fact assumed command, but that was all.

 

Miranda sighed and checked her messages. She might as well use this time to advance another goal. Aeia was remote, but she had privileged access to the ship’s comm bursts and took advantage of that fact now. It didn’t take long for her call to go through.

 

“Niket?” she said, turning in her chair. “It’s Miri.”

 

“Miri?” He sounded surprised. “It’s been a while.”

 

His voice was familiar enough, warm enough, to make her relax a little. Theirs had been an unlikely friendship—the daughter of the house’s master, and the son of one of the staff. There had been few other children of their own age in the vicinity, however, and that had drawn them together. Even so, they might never have been close. Niket attended school, after all, while Miranda had private tutors and a rigorous schedule of activities. She’d discovered his secrets by chance—she’d seen him hiding something on the grounds of the estate, something that turned out to be stolen goods, but she’d promised not to tell his mother, and he’d grudgingly kept her company in the free hours she could steal. She’d found someone to talk to, and he’d found someone who didn’t judge his penchant for petty crime. As time went on, they’d both found their companionship useful and rewarding—for her, never more so than when she’d had to flee, and Niket was the one who helped her secure the false ID chits and other resources she needed. But she hadn’t told him about Oriana then. It had seemed safer for all of them if she was the only one who knew the whole truth. She smiled even though they didn’t have a video connection. “How have you been?”

 

“Can’t complain,” he said with a chuckle. “But listen, we could do the small talk thing, sure, but I know you didn’t call out of the blue just to catch up. This has to be an expensive call. What’s up? Is it about your father? I don’t have much of an in at the estate, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

 

“No, that’s not it.” She ran her fingers through her hair. She had her own eyes and ears in her father’s organization—borrowed from Cerberus, for the most part, but still effective. “But it is about my father, in a way. Or rather, it’s about my sister.”

 

There was a second’s pause. “You have a sister?”

 

“I know I never told you about her, but—” Miranda sighed. “When I ran, I wasn’t alone. I took Oriana, too. I made sure she had a safe home with a family who’d take good care of her.” Who’d love her the way Henry Lawson couldn’t or wouldn’t do, who wouldn’t subject her to impossible pressures and expectations— She felt her face twist into a snarl, and had to concentrate to relax and regain a calm tone. “And they have, they’ve raised her for years, but you know my father. He doesn’t give up easily. If he can’t get me back, he wants her, and I won’t have that. She deserves to be free of him.”

 

“What do you need from me?” he asked, sounding slightly wary. Miranda could hardly blame him. It wasn’t as if they’d been in close contact for quite some time, and she was asking for a considerable favor.

 

She took a deep breath. “I’ve arranged for the family to relocate. New job, new home, the works.”

 

“Wh- How did you manage that?”

 

She grimaced. The truth was that she was running short of favors to call in. “I have some other contacts. I was able to arrange matters through Cerberus—”

 

She could actually hear him splutter. “Cerberus? But—”

 

“But there’s no one I can trust there like you,” she said hastily.

 

Niket snorted. “Trust? You never even told me you had a sister, Miri.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I thought it might be dangerous to you if you knew.” Partial truth: she’d thought it might be dangerous to all of them. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. “Could you just... be on the scene to help make sure the relocation goes smoothly? I don’t know what kind of hirelings my father will have sniffing around. I want someone I trust to keep an eye on the situation.”

 

Another short pause. “Yeah, I can do that. Tell me when and where?”

 

“I’ll send you the data,” Miranda said, relieved. “Thanks, Niket. I owe you one.”

 

“A big one,” he said, cheerfully enough, she thought. “Don’t think I won’t be calling this in. Seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

 

She shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.”

 

“Good,” he said. “Good. Well... take care of yourself, Miri.”

 

“I always do,” she said. “You too, Niket.”

 

“Likewise,” he said, and cut the call.

 

#

 

Shepard called in a few hours later.

 

“Miranda.” Shepard sounded weary, her voice tight over the comm. “I’ve sent out a call for the Alliance to come pick up the survivors from the _Gernsback_ , but they won’t be here for at least twelve hours and these people need immediate attention. Send Dr. Chakwas down with the shuttle and some ration bars and medical supplies. We could use a few others with medical training, too. And Kelly.”

 

Miranda’s brows went up. “Chambers?”

 

“Tell her she can use her counseling skills. These people have been through a lot,” said Shepard. “Female crew only for this.”

 

Miranda’s lips thinned as she took in the implications of that. “I see.”

 

“I’ll brief you fully later,” Shepard said.

 

Shepard did not, however, appear for the promised briefing as soon as she returned to the ship. When Miranda inquired, after waiting in her office for several minutes, EDI reported blandly that Jacob was in his quarters and Shepard and Vakarian were in the portside observation deck. “Really?” she said, startled.

 

“I would not lie to you, Operative Lawson,” said EDI, somehow managing to sound both neutral and affronted at the same time.

 

“Of course not, EDI, I didn’t mean to imply as much. Merely an expression of surprise.”

 

Miranda drummed her fingers on the desk. Perhaps they were clearing the air between them. In the meantime, she might, she supposed, seek out Jacob and ask for his version of events. She hesitated to intrude on his private quarters, though; it was a level of intimacy she was reluctant to engage in at this stage of their relationship.

 

She busied herself, therefore, making sure they were well away from the planet before the Alliance arrived, adding to her requisitions list replacements for the supplies they had left behind with the survivors of the _Hugo Gernsback_. Shepard turned up within an hour, her cheeks slightly flushed. Miranda took a closer look. Shepard seemed, oddly, more relaxed than she had in days, her eyes brighter, and a hint of a smile on her lips. “Commander?”

 

“Sorry to delay,” Shepard said, dropping into a chair and not sounding sorry at all. “Needed to debrief a bit.”

 

“Understood,” said Miranda cautiously. “I gather it was a difficult situation?”

 

The smile dropped off Shepard’s face. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Let me brief you.”

 

It was an ugly story. There was no getting around that. Miranda found herself dismayed—no mere incompetence, this, but deliberate exploitation of the crew as the toxic nature of the planetary flora became clear. “That’s... despicable,” she said, folding her hands together to quell their tension. Ordinarily she would have refrained from expressing judgment, but this time she couldn’t manage it.

 

“We agree on that,” Shepard said. “Ronald Taylor will face charges for what he’s done. I hope that’s justice enough. I let Jacob make the call.”

 

Miranda pursed her lips. “How’s he taking it?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Shepard glanced away, frowning. “He didn’t say much.”

 

“Operative Lawson,” said EDI.

 

“Yes, EDI?”

 

“In light of your current conversation with the commander, I thought I should alert you that Operative Taylor has accessed the QEC.”

 

“What?” Miranda said, half-rising out of her chair. Jacob’s security clearance did permit him access to direct communication with the Illusive Man, but he had never, so far as she knew, used it. It was intended more for emergencies, or situations where both Miranda and Shepard were ashore, than for regular use.

 

“I’ll take care of it,” Shepard said, getting up in one smooth motion.

 

Miranda only hesitated a moment after the door closed before following her.

 

“Then who was it?” Jacob was demanding when she arrived in the briefing room. Miranda recognized the pose: arms crossed, broad shoulders set to intimidate, a frown furrowing his brow. He’d evidently assumed that the Illusive Man had passed him the tip on his father. Shepard stood by with a faint look of exasperation on her face.

 

“It was me,” Miranda interrupted, before Jacob could get any further down the road of unsubtle inquiries.

 

He turned to her in surprise. Had it really never occurred to him? She met his gaze seriously. “Once it was important to you. I keep my promises, Jacob.” She had promised, once, in a long-ago intimate lull. Had he forgotten? Assumed that the promise no longer held, since they were no longer lovers? She didn’t give up on promises so easily, not when she made them so seldom.

 

“Thank you, Miranda,” said the Illusive Man, in those faintly ironic tones that seldom presaged praise. “We’ll discuss your liberal interpretation of security protocols later.”

 

She dipped her head, her mouth and jaw set. It _was_ a security breach, albeit a minor one; she could hardly imagine that he was really going to make an issue of it. She was evidently dismissed, however, and turned to depart, accordingly.

 

The Illusive Man, it seemed, had other plans.

 

She was summoned back to the comm room only minutes later, to find Shepard and Jacob both gone, and the Illusive Man’s holographic projection watching her with that unreadable gaze. “I don’t want to hear of you revealing secure Cerberus information like that again.” He took a puff and blew out the smoke, an intangible trail.

 

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “It was personal information that didn’t betray any Cerberus operations.”

 

“That you know of,” the Illusive Man countered. “You are one operative in one cell, Miranda. Don’t forget that.”

 

Miranda’s lips tightened. It never did to let herself scowl in front of her superior, but she resented the reminder. Before the Lazarus Project, she had ended up trouble-shooting on a number of projects. She was his top agent for a reason, and she was confident that she had a better sense of Cerberus’ range of operations than most of its employees. “The _Gernsback_ had been out of sight for a decade. Any Cerberus connections on the crew were long defunct.”

 

He tilted his head and took another puff. “It’s not your judgment to make, Miranda. Security protocols exist for a reason.”

 

“I was led to believe,” she said, “that this mission was Cerberus’ highest priority, and that the psychological stability of the crew was a high priority within the mission parameters.”

 

His cybernetic eyes fixed her in a cold stare. “Jacob Taylor was posted to this mission _because_ of his psychological stability. That was _your_ recommendation, Miranda. You can’t tell me that not knowing about his father would have severely compromised his effectiveness. Not when he hadn’t heard from the man in years and believed him dead. If any _issues_ manifest, you set them in motion by informing him of the ship’s distress signal in the first place.”

 

Miranda returned a short nod, not quite trusting her voice.

 

“Don’t rationalize this any further. I trust I’ve made myself clear.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said, keeping her face calm and her voice well modulated. She’d been trained to keep a perfect face on by the time she was seventeen. All this time, and he still didn’t trust her judgment? Even when it came to an operative she’d worked with longer than anyone else? For a moment she envied Shepard, and her tendency to do whatever she chose, regardless of what her superiors thought.

 

She took a half step back, considering herself dismissed, but the Illusive Man said, “I observe you’ve been making arrangements to move your sister.”

 

Miranda stopped in place. “I have reason to believe my father’s closing in.”

 

“Yes,” said the Illusive Man, inscrutable.

 

Cautiously, Miranda said, “Do you concur with my judgment?”

 

He paused for a second, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “If your assessment of the situation is that Oriana should be moved, I have no reason to question that conclusion.”

 

Miranda frowned slightly.

 

“And your arrangements are in place?” the Illusive Man asked.

 

“Nearly.” It took an effort to keep her hands relaxed at her sides. “The move isn’t scheduled for some weeks, yet.”

 

He nodded. “You realize she’ll be exposed during the relocation.”

 

Her heartbeat speeded up a notch. “I’m making arrangements to address that.”

 

“You have a plan for everything,” he said, with a half-smile. “Carry on, Miranda.”

 

The call ended, the holographic interface flickering away. Miranda took a deep breath and stepped away from the scanner. Somehow, the conversation had left her more unsettled than before. It was no surprise that the Illusive Man was aware of her actions, she supposed. She shouldn’t make more of his knowledge than it was due.

 

And yet. Was there something unspoken there? Some message buried beneath his words? She turned the conversation over in her head, searching for hidden meanings. With the Illusive Man, one could never be certain.

 

#

 

Jacob, of course, caught her in the corridor as she left the comm room. “Miranda. What did you think you were doing?”

 

She pressed her lips tight together to keep herself from frowning. One thing after another, giving her no time to reflect. “Perhaps we should have this conversation in private.”

 

“I don’t see anyone else around,” he said, giving her a level glance.

 

“Fine.” She crossed her arms. If he wanted to raise the matter now, they could talk now. “I meant it. Once it was important to you to find him, and I made you a promise.”

 

“Why now?” He rocked his weight forward slightly, onto the balls of his feet. In spite of her natural height and that she gained by wearing heels, the posture made Miranda feel small. She didn’t like it.

 

“You were the one who was talking about loose ends not so long ago,” she pointed out, deliberately keeping her voice as level. “What was I supposed to think? I assumed this was what was on your mind.”

 

“Okay, but why do it like this?” Jacob shook his head. “You could have told me it was you. You could have told me what you’d found. You could have asked me before you looked.”

 

She raised and lowered her shoulders, a tight, brittle movement. “I looked, I came across something. Why does it matter how you found out? You found him. Loose ends taken care of.”

 

She could see the muscles tighten in his jaw and neck and shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Much good it does either one of us.”

 

Miranda uncurled from her posture, the tight muscles of her back loosening, and planted her hands on her hips. “Tell me, Jacob, are you angry at me, or at him, or at what you found there? Because your side trip to Aeia might not have done you or him much good, but it certainly helped his crew.”

 

“Surprised you’d care,” he returned, eyes narrowing. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

 

“Surprised I’d _care_? About women who were turned into men’s playthings against their will? Deprived of their intelligence, abused, made to live like primitives while your father lorded it over them?” Her voice was rising and she took a moment to rein it in, breathing hard. “I thought you knew me better than that, Jacob.”

 

He had the grace to look abashed, running one hand over the back of his head before crossing his arms. “Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”

 

She gritted her teeth, letting the embers of her anger dim until she could choose to accept the apology. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you’d hoped for.”

 

“Not sure what I was hoping for,” Jacob said. He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “He had his problems as a father, but I never thought he’d do anything like that. Thought he was at least that good of a man.” He opened his eyes and frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. “The way those people looked at me... they thought I was just like him, Miranda. Because I looked like him.”

 

She had to suppress a sigh. “You’re nothing like him.” Empty reassurance, perhaps. Was biology destiny? Whatever Ronald Taylor had been, she knew Jacob Taylor to be a kind enough man, solid, loyal, dependable, one who kept his head in a crisis. That wasn’t the man who would create the situation Shepard had described to her.

 

“Thanks,” he said, gaze still fixed on the distance, and started to turn back toward the armory. “Loose ends. You know, I don’t know if I feel better. I thought finding him...” He shrugged. “I guess it’s better than a question mark.”

 

“Why did you ask Shepard for help?” she asked quickly, and was surprised to hear the words leaving her mouth.

 

He turned back, eyebrows going up. “Didn’t know what we’d find. Thought I should have some back-up. She didn’t mind.”

 

“Didn’t mind?”

 

He shrugged. “Said it was a good opportunity for the team to work together, and she wanted everyone’s heads clear. She offered, once she knew there was something going on.”

 

Probably because Jacob had hinted at it. Typical.

 

“Why?” he asked. “You mad about disrupting the mission?”

 

“It’s Shepard’s call,” she said, hating herself for using that excuse, because she did mind, at least a little. “I just thought it strange you’d ask her for a favor.” Instead of me, she thought, but didn’t say.

 

“She’s the commander,” he said, as if answering her unspoken thought. “But... I don’t know.” He shrugged. “She... doesn’t judge, you know? Acts like she really wants to help.” Something more that admiration gleamed in his dark eyes. “Not often someone will put themselves on the line like that, especially a superior officer.”

 

Ah. There it was. Shepard had him, hook, line, and sinker. It was that same look the SR-1 crew had whenever they were interviewed about her. It wasn’t even deliberately manipulative on Shepard’s part, Miranda didn’t think. Not any longer, at least. Shepard did genuinely care about her people. Miranda didn’t suppose she herself was entirely included in that category.

 

Still. Perhaps. She might find herself in need of a favor one day, too, and before too much longer.


	9. Chapter 9

“I don’t appreciate being used as _bait_ ,” Shepard snapped.

 

Miranda began, “The Illusive Man—” but Shepard was up and out of her seat before she could get any further.

 

“I don’t want to hear from the Illusive Man,” Shepard said, leaning over Miranda’s desk, one finger aimed at her chest. The color in her cheeks was high and her eyes snapped with fury. “I already talked to the Illusive Man. I want to hear from you, Miranda Lawson. I want to hear your honest, unvarnished opinion of what happened out there today. Do you, Miranda Lawson, think it was appropriate to keep the ground team leader out of the loop, to feed her false information, and allow the team to walk into a trap?”

 

Miranda’s spine stiffened against Shepard’s proximity, the onslaught of her words. Her biotics tingled at the base of her skull, and her fingers twitched with the impulse to sign a mnemonic. Shepard, she noted, for all her visible anger, _wasn’t_ surging. Her green eyes were sharp and cold, holding Miranda’s, and she forced herself to consider the question, apart from what she knew of Cerberus protocols and the Illusive Man’s typical mode of handling business. “Not with you,” she said, eventually, almost grudgingly. “You’re too valuable an asset.” She was _not_ part of Shepard’s adoring following, but she’d studied Shepard more than anyone, spent two years of her life and billions of Cerberus’ credits to bring her back. There were _reasons_ for that. “You’re also a more experienced marine commander than anyone else in the operation. Had you been fully informed of the Collector ship’s circumstances prior to the mission, you might have identified other tactical approaches that would have yielded equally advantageous results. The Illusive Man trusted that you could fight your way out of the Collectors’ trap—I do _not_ think any of you were intended to die there today—but I would have involved you in the plan from the start.”

 

Shepard held her gaze for a moment longer, and then her expression and posture relaxed, just a trifle. “Good.” She resumed her seat, placing her hands on her lap, and now Miranda saw, and felt, the telltale crackle of dark energy along her hands. Miranda blinked at the abrupt shift, wondering if she had just passed a test.

 

“You realize, of course,” Shepard said conversationally, “that intent doesn’t matter a shit in a live-fire situation. Garrus and Zaeed and I had the skill and experience to get out of there alive, with a little guidance from EDI and some sharp flying from Joker.”

 

“Yes,” Miranda acknowledged, a little stiffly. Moreau’s attitude was a continuing annoyance, but he did deliver when it counted, and that weighed heavily in his favor.

 

Shepard continued, “A less experienced team might have had more difficulty. I don’t like losing people unnecessarily. If we’d lost anyone, including any of the non-combat crew—” she shook her head. “I don’t like being led astray by my superiors, either.” Her lips turned up in a thin smile. “Not that I consider the Illusive Man my superior, properly speaking. Less so now than six hours ago.”

 

“I understand that,” Miranda said, carefully. She wondered, for a fleeting second, if the Illusive Man knew what he was doing. Had he truly calculated on making Shepard an enemy? Because there was little question in Miranda’s mind that she was. She would finish the mission, but any hope of winning her over to Cerberus in the long term had died that day.

 

“I’m glad you do.” Shepard settled back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

 

A dozen questions ran through Miranda’s mind, but the answers to some of them were already clear. Shepard had not, after all, taken control of the ship; she sat here, apparently at ease, in Miranda’s office. If she intended warfare against Cerberus now, she would have taken other action. She was growing weary of guessing at Shepard’s intentions, however. “Where do we stand here, Shepard?”

 

“You’re my XO,” Shepard replied without batting an eye.

 

Miranda expelled a careful breath. “You don’t intend to alter the current status quo, then.”

 

“I don’t see that as necessary.”

 

“I see,” Miranda said, hoping she did, in fact, see. She looked down at her hands, linked loosely together on her desk. “I admit I had expected you to push to replace me earlier in the mission. Especially after Vakarian was recruited.”

 

“How do you know I didn’t?”

 

Miranda looked up, shocked, but Shepard’s was smiling. “I didn’t,” she added calmly. “Garrus is capable of handling an XO’s duties, but it’s not the best use of his skills. It was clear from the start that I’d be a fool to overlook your talents, Miranda. Or underestimate you. I thought I’d see if we could develop a working relationship.”

 

Miranda nodded, slowly. They had, she had to admit that. She understood Shepard far better now than she had when the mission began, even if she was still occasionally baffled at the other woman’s actions. She said, on impulse, “There are situations where I would risk personnel assets, you understand. And have. But today—”

 

“Today we risked the whole ship,” said Shepard, flatly, and Miranda nodded her agreement.

 

“We gained valuable intel,” she said. “Few tangible assets, however.”

 

“No,” Shepard said. A crease appeared between her eyes. “Knowing that the Collectors are Protheans helps to prove the Reaper connection, but it doesn’t do much to advance our current mission.”

 

“At least Mordin’s happy.”

 

“True.” Shepard smiled, wryly. The salarian had seized upon the new data and scans from the Collectors’ ship with an alarming degree of glee.

 

A quiet fell, and Miranda caught herself tapping her thumbs against each other. “Cerberus... tends to prioritize secrecy.”

 

“The cell structure,” said Shepard.

 

“Yes. That, but... it’s a working mode for the entire organization. One cell may be asked to supply necessary assets for another, but does not know why. We become accustomed to following orders that we don’t fully comprehend. The Illusive Man is not... in the habit of explaining himself.”

 

“He’s never worked with me before.”

 

Shepard’s tone was implacable. Miranda took a careful breath. Shepard was truly in a unique position. Beholden to Cerberus for the life she now led, perhaps, but also its most valuable asset.

 

And an enemy, she must remember that. “No,” she said. “He hasn’t.” It sounded weak in her own ears. Habit was a poor excuse; the Illusive Man was better able to adapt than that, which meant he had chosen his strategy deliberately, which in turn meant...

 

“Tell me,” Shepard said, straightening a bit, “how certain of Cerberus are you, Miranda?”

 

Miranda blinked. “Beg pardon?”

 

“A while back you were telling me about Cerberus’ plans to advance humanity. You sounded very confident, then, that Cerberus has humanity’s best interests at heart. But you also know Cerberus operates in secret. How much do you know about what other cells are really up to? How much can you trust that they’re actually advancing the right goals? And can you be sure you agree with _how_ they’re doing it?”

 

“I—” For once, Miranda found herself at a loss for words. “I have worked with a number of Cerberus cells. I think I have a broader perspective on the organization’s work than most.”

 

Shepard nodded without blinking. “How much do you know about Chasca? The release of rachni on Erebus? The death of Admiral Kahoku? Akuze?”

 

Miranda’s jaw tightened. She took in a short breath. “I’m familiar with your mission reports.”

 

“But not the Cerberus side.”

 

Miranda gritted her teeth. “No.”

 

Shepard rose. “You don’t have to answer my questions today, Miranda. But think about them.”

 

Miranda opened her mouth, but Shepard wheeled around with casual grace before she could speak, and left without another word. Miranda sat back, closing her lips tight. She had a strange, frustrated feeling of having stepped into a trap, and of still awaiting its effects.

 

#

 

“I can’t believe you’re okay with the Cerberus thing,” Tali said.

 

Garrus reached out and retrieved the tool she was toying with, placing it back in its appropriate spot on his workbench. In the few days since she’d joined the crew on Haestrom, she’d developed a habit of coming down for a chat in her off hours. That was fine, but she needed to stop rearranging his things. “I don’t know what you mean when you say _okay with_.”

 

“You’re—” Tali made a little noise in her throat. “You’re here—”

 

“So are you,” he returned evenly.

 

“I’m here for _Shepard._ ”

 

“So am I.”

 

“But you’re working with the Cerberus people—”

 

“So are you.”

 

Tali growled deep in her throat. Garrus smirked to himself. The noise was hardly intimidating. “Let me finish, turian.”

 

“Fine,” he said, his attention straying back to his console. “Go ahead, then.”

 

“You don’t seem to have any problem working with any of the crew, or even Jacob, or that awful Lawson woman.”

 

He waited, but Tali seemed to be stopping there. He gave her a questioning look. “What do you think I should be doing? Refusing to work with them?”

 

Tali’s helmet tipped down. He’d guess she was scowling behind her faceplate. “No, but—”

 

“She’s not that awful, either.”

 

“Ugh.” Tali propped one hip against the railing separating them from the gun emplacement. “She’s so— so— officious. Do this, do that, file these forms, blah blah. As if I don’t know how to handle the engine.”

 

Garrus snorted. “What you’re describing is an XO’s job, whether she’s Cerberus or not.”

 

“But why is Shepard letting _her_ be XO?” Tali grumbled.

 

“She’s very efficient,” Garrus said, wondering exactly how he’d gotten into the position of defending Miranda Lawson. He gave Tali a grin that showed most of his teeth. “It could be worse, you know. It could be _me_.”

 

Tali laughed. “Oh, perish the thought! I don’t know, Garrus, I know how to get around you.”

 

He raised a finger. “No favoritism allowed, Tali.”

 

She laughed again, hard enough to make her hiccup a little, and Garrus decided not to be insulted that she found the idea so very funny. When the laughter died down, he could see her twining her fingers together restlessly. “At least I’d trust you,” she said.

 

Garrus snorted. “I’m flattered.”

 

“No, but really.” Tali was looking down, and her tone was pensive. “How can you trust her at all? She’s _Cerberus_.”

 

Garrus sighed. He’d wondered himself, when he came aboard, how Shepard could stand leaving a dedicated Cerberus agent in a position of authority, even though the idea of filling the place himself made him feel ill. Strangely, he felt more equal to it now. Confronting Sidonis had shaken him into a new line of thought, even though he’d ultimately let the traitor go; had forced him into re-evaluating his own actions. Sidonis was weak, not evil; he’d faltered under pressure, not betrayed them out of malice. That, from what Garrus had always been trained to believe, made Sidonis’ failure Garrus’ fault, for placing him in a situation he couldn’t handle. He’d carried that worry for a few more days, until he and Shepard had talked after they’d come back from Aeia. Like so often, she’d suggested a different perspective. It still sat uncomfortably with him, like armor that hadn’t quite settled in yet, but he was trying out the idea that he wasn’t solely responsible for his team’s fate.

 

With Miranda, it was a similar pattern, really: Shepard had set the example. She’d trusted Lawson so far, and no farther, trusted that she’d be predictable, at least to a point, and that they could count on her so far as their interests aligned with hers. Through observation, he’d come to his own, similar, conclusions: Lawson was intelligent, capable, dispassionate, and logical. In many ways, and with different loyalties, she could be a model turian officer. She was less rational when it came to Cerberus, but even so, she was no fanatic. He did trust her to cover his back, though Shepard rarely tapped her for missions, and he trusted her to handle the day-to-day running of the ship.

 

He didn’t know how to explain this to Tali, though, who tended to trust fully or not at all. “She’s... it’s hard to explain,” he said. “She’s committed to the mission. She has... some loyalty to Shepard, even.”

 

“Hmm.” Tali didn’t sound convinced.

 

“I told her what I thought about Cerberus,” Garrus added. “She knows how we feel. It’s not just you and me, there’s Thane and Samara and Mordin, too. Hell, Tali, none of us can hate Cerberus as much as Jack does. Just... follow Shepard’s lead.”

 

“All right, I’ll try,” she said. “I still don’t like it, though.”

 

“Nobody’s asking you to like it,” he said. “Just to cooperate for the sake of the mission.”

 

Tali let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s so turian of you.”

 

Garrus grinned. “I can’t help being perfect, Tali. Come on, it’s time for dinner.”

 

#

 

Miranda felt herself to be threading her way through a minefield, even though Shepard didn’t raise her questions again. It was enough, perhaps, that she had asked them. _Think about them_ , Shepard had said, and Miranda could hardly not. Her mind was ordinarily well-disciplined, but she could not keep it from drifting back to contemplation of the problems Shepard had raised.

 

The Illusive Man had—not sold them out, no matter what manner of grumbling she was still hearing from certainmembers of the ground team. The Illusive Man had made a decision that Miranda considered to be a strategic and tactical error. He had neither informed nor consulted Miranda herself before doing so, even though she was the one with the best understanding of Shepard’s temperament, even though she was the one on the spot, who had to deal with the adverse consequences of his decision. She was fortunate, in fact, that Shepard had chosen not to blame Miranda for the issue of the Collector Ship. If Shepard chose to move against Miranda and Cerberus now, the majority of the crew would probably follow her. She could certainly secure the ship with the assistance of the combat team and force the non-combatant crew to accept her coup as a _fait accompli_.

 

Miranda knew the Illusive Man relied on her, trusted her, gave her tasks worthy of her talents. She had assumed she had his respect. She had had the temerity to think she was in his inner circle.

 

Perhaps the Illusive Man didn’t have an inner circle.

 

Shepard’s questions had justice. What else had Miranda been missing?

 

Cerberus’ cause was the advancement of humanity. She believed in that. And yet: what _had_ happened on Akuze and Chasca and Erebus? Those experiments with thresher maws and rachni and Thorian samples and Dragon’s Teeth had been foolishly careless, if not maliciously intentioned from the start. That implied, at the very least, a rot in the organization, a certain slippage of oversight. If that analysis was correct, it went back a substantial period of time; Akuze had been eight years ago.

 

Such thoughts turned around in Miranda’s head restlessly. Her nerves were not settled by Jack’s presence. The younger woman ranged around the ship like an angry shadow, her movements abrupt and jagged. She snarled every time she saw Miranda, her dark eyes contemptuous, but with a trace of lingering fear. She had taken to covering herself more adequately than when she’d first boarded, but the tattoos and scars that marked her limbs and head were still clearly visible. She was out and about more than she had been, too, associating mostly with Zaeed or Grunt. They made a loud, boorish trio, the aroma of cigars wafting around them. Jack was a powerful biotic, there was no doubt of that; Miranda had seen her in action, although mostly during training, and she’d seen and heard the mission reports. At what cost, though? She was a mistake, a badly planned experiment run amok, crude and uncontrolled. What good was power without some degree of finesse?

 

The most recent addition to the crew didn’t help Miranda’s state of mind, either. Tali’Zorah made no secret of her contempt for Cerberus and lost no opportunity to bring up that mess with the Migrant Fleet. Even Miranda couldn’t make out the quarian’s expression through her helmet, but she could hardly miss the sly tone in her voice or the narrowing of her eyes. To be sure, she was a more than competent engineer, and worked well with the rest of the engineering staff, but she obviously resented having to follow Cerberus procedures and submit reports and requests to Miranda, presuming that her friendship with Shepard granted her more leeway.

 

If a fractious, idiosyncratic group of individuals like this one were under Miranda’s command directly, she would have taken a hard line from the start. Shepard— Shepard handled things differently, and somehow she returned results beyond what anyone could have reasonably expected. Miranda was still puzzling through the conundrum.

 

Preoccupied, she emerged from her office for the end-of-shift meal, somewhat later than usual, to find most of the tables occupied. Vakarian and the very same irritating Tali’Zorah were sitting across from each other at the only table with free seats. Miranda frowned, and almost immediately smoothed her face back into a neutral expression. She could always take her meal back to her office.

 

Except that, on her way past with her tray, Vakarian said, “The seat’s free if you’d like it, Miranda.”

 

She stopped short. Tali’Zorah sighed loudly. Vakarian sent her an indecipherable look across the table, and she slumped back in her seat. “By all means,” she said. “Join us.”

 

Miranda hesitated, but she was not going to be the one to spurn the offer and sow more seeds of dissension among the crew. She sat, and began to eat. “How are Daniels and Donnelly working out, Tali’Zorah?” she inquired, after a few mouthfuls.

 

The quarian straightened slightly, her fingers twitching. “They’re fine. They know their stuff. A little conventional, maybe, but their training is solid.”

 

“Good,” Miranda said, casting about for another neutral topic of conversation.

 

Tali said, forestalling her, “So, Miranda, what other Cerberus projects have you worked on?”

 

Miranda paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, then deliberately took the bite, chewed, and swallowed before saying, “I worked on a number of projects before the Lazarus project, yes. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.”

 

“That’s convenient,” said Tali.

 

Vakarian moved slightly, and Tali glared at him. Miranda guessed he had kicked her under the table. She was mildly surprised to find the turian an ally. All that conditioning about team cohesion, perhaps. Disruption in the chain of command did not fit with his interests. “It’s protocol,” she returned tightly.

 

“A convenient protocol,” Tali murmured.

 

A ripple of conversation on the other side of the room lent some relief before matters got any tenser at their table. Miranda turned her head to find that Shepard had entered, her trail winding through the mess hall as she exchanged greetings and jokes with nearly everyone before collecting her meal from Gardner. She planted herself in the chair opposite Miranda, next to Tali’Zorah. “How are we doing over here?” she said cheerfully enough.

 

“Fine,” said Miranda, just as Tali said, “We were just talking about previous work experiences.”

 

Shepard glanced from one to the other and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Really.”

 

“Sure. Did I ever tell you about the time I spent patrolling the ward while I was at C-Sec?” Vakarian said. Miranda looked at him with some surprise.

 

Shepard regarded him with a raised eyebrow before turning her attention to her meal. “Not in great detail, no.”

 

Vakarian went on to spin some story involving a recalcitrant hanar panhandler that soon had Shepard chuckling, and even Tali giggling from time to time. Miranda finished her own meal in peace, allowing herself to smile occasionally at the most amusing details. When she finally pushed her chair back, Shepard glanced up. “Kelly said you needed to speak to me, Miranda?”

 

“It’s... not urgent,” she said. Oriana’s relocation wasn’t scheduled for some weeks yet. “Tomorrow will do.”

 

Shepard nodded. “See you then.”

 

Miranda returned her tray and utensils to Gardner and made her retreat. She wasn’t quite prepared for that conversation. It seemed best to inform Shepard—she’d rather be on the scene herself, if possible, and that entailed some adjustments to the _Normandy_ ’s itinerary, which was Shepard’s prerogative—but more and more she was thinking that if anything did go awry, even a little bit, there was no one better at improvising and saving a situation than Shepard.

 

Not that anything would go wrong—Niket would see to that—but her conversation with the Illusive Man still preyed upon her memory. It never hurt to have some solid back-up, and if Shepard was willing to assist other crew members— well.

 

If she wasn’t, that, too, would tell Miranda where she stood.


	10. Chapter 10

Miranda disliked having to explain herself, almost as much as she disliked asking for favors.

 

Now, facing Shepard across her desk, she had to do both.

 

“Shepard,” she said evenly, lacing her fingers together, “I find myself in the unpleasant position of asking for your help. I don’t like discussing personal matters, but this is important.”

 

Shepard’s eyebrows twitched up, but all she said was: “Miranda, you’re one of my crew. What do you need?”

 

Miranda exhaled slowly. She hadn’t been certain how Shepard would respond; it was good to know that she wasn’t set apart from the rest of the crew in this regard. “You remember what I told you about my father?”

 

Shepard nodded, crossing her arms. “Something about being a manipulative bastard.”

 

“All he cares about is his dynasty. There was more than one reason I sought protection from Cerberus.” Too restless to remain seated, Miranda stood, moving around the corner of the desk and looking out the viewport. She took another slow breath, finding something obscurely comforting in the impersonal, star-strewn darkness. She twisted to face Shepard. “I have a sister. A twin.” There, the words were out, the ones she almost never admitted to anyone. “My father’s still hunting her. Cerberus has protected her all these years, so she’s living a normal life on Illium. Far away from him.”

 

Shepard’s mouth tightened. “Until now, I’m guessing. You think he knows where she is?”

 

Miranda made a short nod. “That’s what my contacts tell me. He’s too close, and I’m running out of options. I need to relocate my sister’s family before it’s too late.”

 

Shepard’s brows drew together as she nodded, slowly. “What do you know about your sister? Have you been in touch?”

 

Miranda shook her head. “I don’t have contact with her, for her own safety. She’s my genetic twin, though. We’re identical.” Barring the years that separated them, but that wasn’t the point now. She and Oriana were the same deep down in their very cells. She wasn’t quite able to keep the bitterness from her voice as she said, “But she deserves a normal life, and she’s going to get it, no matter what.” Oriana would one day accomplish great things, Miranda had no doubt of it. But she would have the chance to get there on her own merits and choices, not being forced like a hothouse flower.

 

“Okay,” said Shepard. “So the family doesn’t know about this, either?”

 

“No. They know nothing. They’re quite normal. I’ve called in some favors, and come up with a positive reason to move the family. That’s all arranged.” There had been no difficulties with the arrangements thus far, at least.

 

“Then what do you need from me?” Shepard asked.

 

Miranda sighed. “It shouldn’t be difficult. If everything goes according to plan, it’ll be a smooth transition. All that needs to happen is that the family gets on the correct flight with no interference.” She was rambling, she thought with distaste, and shook herself. “But my father is extremely persistent. I’d like to be on Illium when the family is relocated. Just as a precaution.”

 

Shepard nodded, her lips pursing. “I understand. You’d like to keep an eye on the situation in case of any surprises.”

 

“Yes, exactly,” Miranda said, relieved.

 

“Not a problem,” Shepard said. She seemed about to speak again, hesitated, and then said, “You never mentioned a sister before.”

 

Miranda shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, really.” It felt odd to talk about Oriana, in truth. Ordinarily, Miranda didn’t share her sister’s existence. “I took her with me when I left my father’s house. She has a normal life now. I’d like her and her family to keep it.”

 

Shepard nodded. “I get that. Let me know when and where, and we’ll get it done.”

 

“Thank you, Shepard,” Miranda said, relieved. “I appreciate it.”

 

The corner of Shepard’s mouth quirked up. “You’re welcome. Was there anything else?”

 

With a blink, Miranda recalled herself, and the usual daily reports. She returned to her side of the desk. “Just a few things...”

 

There was time remaining, yet, before Oriana and her family would be relocated. With Shepard’s agreement secured, and all her other plans in place, Miranda could renew her focus on the mission at hand. In the next few weeks, it seemed as though the _Normandy_ jaunted from one end of the galaxy to the other—Tuchanka, the Ismar Frontier, back to the Citadel—on errands which were largely personal.

 

She could hardly object, since she herself had asked Shepard for assistance in a personal matter, as well. None of the missions took a great deal of time individually, and all allowed opportunities to hone the team’s skills, as well as continue collecting resources and refining their tactics. But when Shepard came into Miranda’s office, freshly scrubbed but still smelling vaguely of smoke, and said conversationally, “Zaeed tried to get us killed today,” Miranda wondered if she should have objected sooner.

 

“Come again?” she replied, taken aback.

 

Shepard sank into her usual seat, slouching a bit more than her custom. “He thought it was a good idea to set fire to a refinery.”

 

“He— what?” Miranda started to rise to her feet. “I knew he had an arrangement, but— that arrogant, stubborn—”

 

“Hey, Cerberus hired him,” Shepard said with a smirk. “I dealt with it. Don’t worry about it.” She sighed. “Long day, though.”

 

Miranda resumed her seat, but found herself still tense, perching at the edge of the chair. “Dealt with it?”

 

“I’ll write you up a full report. I think I managed to make him see that he needs to be part of the team, though.” Her eyes hardened briefly before she shook her head.

 

“That... sounds like an accomplishment,” Miranda said cautiously. She was aware of Massani’s track record. Former affiliation with the Blue Suns notwithstanding, he had spent the last decade with few close associates.

 

Shepard chuckled. “Don’t think I’ll be getting a medal for this one.”

 

Miranda relaxed into her seat a little. “Shepard—I realize this sounds a trifle hypocritical, but do you think it’s wise to continue doing favors for the crew? If risks of this level are going to be involved, perhaps you shouldn’t continue—”

 

Shepard shook her head, though a slight smile remained on her lips. “It’s not about doing favors.”

 

“It isn’t?” Miranda raised her eyebrows. It had certainly appeared as though Shepard was taking the opportunities to settle affairs and tie the crew more tightly to herself.

 

“People do have unfinished business,” Shepard admitted, “but that’s only part of it. The truth is, we’re not ready yet. The Collector Base—we don’t know what to expect there. The team needs more time to get organized, learn how to work together.”

 

Miranda nodded slowly, considering. “We do need to retrieve the IFF.”

 

“We’re not ready for that yet, either.” Shepard’s smile faded. “And the word from Chandana’s team is that they haven’t isolated it yet, isn’t that right?”

 

“Their reports are sporadic, but that’s correct,” Miranda said, frowning slightly. Following Cerberus protocols, she didn’t communicate with Chandana’s cell directly. Rather, their reports were funneled to her through an intermediary. They were brief, often unhelpfully technical, and, she suspected, heavily redacted.

 

“I want everyone to have their heads on straight before we board a Reaper,” said Shepard, her lips thinning. “Doubts, distrust, confusion—I don’t like the idea of that.”

 

After a moment, Miranda asked, “What do you expect?”

 

“It’s hard to say,” Shepard admitted. Her gaze had gone distant. “Talking to Sovereign was... unsettling. And Harbinger, out in the field...” Her shoulders twitched. “Just being near one feels strange. I can only imagine what boarding a Reaper, even a dead one, is going to be like.”

 

“I see,” Miranda said. “It’s your call, of course.”

 

Shepard’s eyes refocused and she nodded. “Yes. It is. We can take a little time.”

 

Miranda nodded as well. She was, after all, calling upon Shepard’s help herself. “You don’t anticipate any further difficulties with Massani?”

 

Shepard’s shoulder rose and fell. “I don’t think so, though we can keep an eye on it.”

 

She had to accept Shepard’s judgment. It was true that, for the most part, people seemed satisfied after these personal missions. Grunt’s attitude had improved considerably after their trip to Tuchanka, and even Jack had settled down since visiting Pragia. She still sneered at Miranda whenever they crossed paths, but she was actually mixing with the alien crew, at least, if not the Cerberus crew. The one exception to that pattern had been Vakarian, whose errand had left him more reserved than usual, even occasionally snappish, and had left Shepard shaken. That coldness, too, seemed to have faded in more recent days. Whatever had passed between the two of them, they must have patched it up.

 

They were losing time, of course—there was another colony attack, and it was only a matter of time until the next one—but Miranda had to agree with Shepard that they needed to be fully prepared before facing the challenges of retrieving the IFF and mounting an assault on wherever the Collectors came from.

 

#

 

The day of the move, _Normandy_ ’s docking at Nos Astra was perfectly routine. Miranda signed off on shore leave for most of the crew, and disembarked with Shepard and Vakarian both beside her. Shepard had asked for the turian to accompany them, saying, “Garrus has sharp eyes and police experience, if anything does come up,” and Miranda had acquiesced. She eyed her two companions as they made their way through Nos Astra’s busy corridors, wondering if there was something more to Shepard’s preference, but both appeared quite normal, as professional as usual. She dismissed the notion as they went into Eternity to meet her contact.

 

Miranda knew something was wrong as soon as she saw Lanteia’s face.

 

Asari weren’t hard to read, really, especially young ones, and for all Lanteia’s experience, she was young by the standards of her species. From the tightness around her mouth, Miranda could tell that something had not gone precisely as planned. The asari didn’t beat around the bush, which Miranda appreciated. “Ms. Lawson? I’m glad you made it. We’ve had a complication.”

 

A complication. This was supposed to be simple. “What happened? Is Oriana all right?”

 

Oriana was fine. But Niket had contacted Lanteia, reporting that Miranda’s father had hired Eclipse mercenaries, and offering to watch over Oriana’s transfer himself. Lanteia said he was concerned that the mercenaries might be looking for Miranda herself, and she felt the old fear tighten her gut, just for a moment. When she’d first left home, she’d occasionally woken in the middle of the night, damp with sweat and convinced that her father’s agents were at the door. It had been hard to shake the fear that his money and influence would buy the resources to snare her again. It was why she’d cut most of her ties, why she’d sought refuge with Cerberus. They had come close once or twice—one incident that she’d learned about from the Illusive Man, agents that Cerberus had successfully deflected—but now? No. She wasn’t a green girl any more.

 

“You never mentioned anything about Niket,” Shepard said.

 

“He’s an old friend. He and I go back a long way,” Miranda explained.

 

Lanteia asked if Miranda intended to bring in any other contacts, which she didn’t; she’d prefer to handle the situation personally, mercenaries or no. Shepard asked a few questions about the mercenaries, while Miranda considered the possibilities. If the mercs really were looking for her, she could potentially deflect their attention from Oriana by showing herself. That was what she suggested when Shepard turned to her, saying, “She’s your sister, Miranda. What do you want to do?”

 

“We’ll take Niket’s suggestion,” Miranda said. “We’ll take the car and draw their attention. Have Niket escort the shuttle. We’ll give him access to the family’s itinerary, just to be safe.” It was good that Niket had spotted the problem, in fact.

 

Shepard raised an eyebrow. “So the plan is for us to get shot down by Eclipse while your sister gets to safety?” Behind her, Vakarian’s mandibles twitched.

 

“Eclipse will be under orders to bring my sister in alive,” Miranda said, briefly meeting Vakarian’s eyes over Shepard’s shoulder. They might even have orders to take _her_ alive, although Miranda couldn’t be certain of that. “They won’t risk anything that might kill us.”

 

Vakarian gave her the barest nod even as Shepard pursed her lips and nodded herself. “Okay. I’m ready whenever you are.”

 

Miranda took a breath. “Thank you, Shepard. I appreciate this. I never planned on Eclipse—but they never planned on you.” She’d been right, again, to ask for Shepard’s support on this mission. The mercenaries had presumably been briefed on Miranda, but they could hardly have expected her to bring anyone like Shepard for back-up.

 

For once, Shepard and Vakarian avoided their usual banter as the three of them secured a rental car and took off for the transport terminal. Miranda was grateful for the quiet, which eased her nerves. They could handle Eclipse mercenaries, certainly; they’d done it before. Nonetheless, she felt on edge, keyed up more than was typical before combat. Perhaps it was her lack of recent combat time. Her companions, in contrast, seemed calm and focused.

 

She saw the gunships as they approached the terminal and cursed out loud, immediately seeing their plan: to drop troops in the cargo areas, making their way through the terminal to Oriana and her family from there. At Shepard’s direction, she set the car down in cover, murmuring, “Let’s hope they really do want to take us alive.”

 

From the back seat, Vakarian snorted, and Shepard gave her a quick flash of teeth. “You want to do the talking here, Miranda, or you want me to?”

 

“I’ll handle it,” Miranda said, her hands tightening briefly on the controls before letting go and reaching for the handle of the door.

 

Shepard nodded, short and quick. “We’ll cover you. Ready, Garrus?”

 

“Are you kidding? This looks like fun.”

 

Fun. For him, perhaps. Miranda ignored the distraction and took the lead as they left the car, approaching the Eclipse lieutenant, a human man. Enterprising; Eclipse usually hired asari or salarians. She could see recognition in his face as he watched them draw near, and called out, loud and crisp: “Since you’re not firing yet, I trust you know who I am.”

 

“Yeah,” said the lieutenant, nearly sneering, “they said you’d be in the car. You’re the bitch that kidnapped our boss’s little girl.”

 

“Kidnapped?” Miranda didn’t bother to hide her scorn as she noted the number and locations of the other mercenaries. “This doesn’t involve you. I suggest you take your men and go.”

 

He smirked at her. “Think you’ve got it all lined up, huh? Captain Enyala’s already moving in on the girl. She knows about Niket. He won’t be helping you.”

 

 _Niket?_ Miranda didn’t let her expression falter, but she felt a frisson of cold along her spine. Niket, a traitor? No.

 

“What do you mean, Niket won’t be helping us?” Shepard spoke while Miranda was still gathering her thoughts.

 

“Nothing you need to worry about. Nobody’s going to get killed unless you do something stupid. You walk away now, the girl goes back to her father, and everybody’s happy.”

 

The hell with _that_. “Everybody but my sister. And me,” Miranda replied sharply.

 

Beside her, Shepard kept a casual posture, but Miranda had little doubt she’d be ready to move when needed. “Should we be talking to Captain Enyala about this?” she asked.

 

The mercenary shook his head. “You don’t want to talk to the captain. She’s not as polite as I am. She’s the best commando I’ve ever seen.” His tone turned admiring. “I’ve seen her tear people in half with her biotics. And she’s getting paid a lot to stop you.”

 

“She gets in my way, she’ll never have a chance to spend it,” Miranda snapped. This was no different from dealing with a recalcitrant Cerberus subordinate, really... but she didn’t think they were getting anywhere with this one.

 

Shepard, evidently, agreed. Her weight shifted, subtly. “You’re not getting Miranda’s sister. If you push this, it’ll go badly for you.”

 

The merc sneered. “Captain Enyala ordered us to give you one chance to walk away. But this whole time we’ve been talking, my men have been lining up shots. When I say the word, we unleash hell on your squad. So I suggest you walk away nicely, unless you want things to get ugly.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. This time he was the one who thought he had it all figured out.

 

Shepard moved before Miranda, or anyone else, could even blink. The Eclipse merc’s heavy shields had been designed to deflect gunfire, not Shepard’s biotically charged fist, which knocked him flat. Before he hit the ground, Miranda drew her pistol and fired at his companion, precise and targeted. Another merc fell off a stack of crates behind them, still clutching his rocket launcher, testament to Vakarian’s aim. Shepard pulled her own gun and fired at the cargo crane overhead. Crates fell from the damaged structure, exploding on impact and sending a pair of mechs flying. A salarian engineer in Eclipse colors whirled to stare at the mess and then back at them; Miranda overloaded his shields while he was still gaping, and Shepard finished him with a blast from her shotgun.

 

All three of them rolled into cover as another group of Eclipse emerged from the cargo area. Miranda took a moment to snatch the radio unit from the fallen spokesman; Vakarian was targeting the most heavily armed mercs with his assault rifle, while Shepard peered around the crate she’d taken shelter behind and then hurtled into the midst of the knot of mercs. Miranda picked her own target, an engineer backing away from Shepard, set off another overload, and then raised her arm to slam him with a warp. She could almost feel his armor and skeleton twist and crack with the impact, and felt a surge of cold satisfaction.

 

It took only a few minutes to take the mercs down, and Miranda started forward, checking the frequencies on the radio in her hand. “Shepard, I’ll patch us into their comms, see if we can get an idea of what we’re up against. According to the specs I reviews, we need to cut through the cargo processing yard to get to Oriana.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Shepard said. Miranda turned, to find Shepard following her with an unusually hard expression. “What’s this about a little girl? You said she was your twin sister.”

 

Miranda started, taken aback. She should have known Shepard would pick up on the mercenary’s words and follow up. She bit the inside of her cheek, considering what to tell. “It’s complicated, Shepard. We share the same DNA, just not the same birthday.”

 

Shepard took that in with narrowed eyes; then comprehension dawned. “She’s your younger... clone?”

 

“We were both... engineered,” Miranda said grimly. She glanced at her omni-tool, marking the time, and made a decision. “Shepard... I suppose I owe you an explanation. Oriana is my twin, genetically. But my father... grew... her when I was a teenager.” Her lip curled for a moment. “She was meant to replace me. I couldn’t let my father do to her what he had done to me. So I rescued her.”

 

Shepard blew out a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me that we were saving a kid?”

 

“She’s not a child any more. She’ll be nineteen this year.” Almost grown, Miranda reflected. She’d seen pics, but it had been a long time since she had seen Oriana with her own eyes. “I’m sorry, Shepard. All I can say is... it didn’t seem relevant at the time. There are people who would use her against me. I’m very protective when it comes to Oriana.”

 

“I can understand that, but I needed this information before we hit the ground, Miranda,” Shepard said, grimly.

 

Miranda winced. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you sooner. You deserved to know.”

 

Shepard crossed her arms over her chest. “So you didn’t just choose to go your own way, you took a young child with you as well.”

 

Miranda shook her head, taking a step closer. “If you knew my father, you’d understand. I wasn’t the first one he made. I was only the first one he kept. I was brought up with no friends, raised to meet impossible demands. I wasn’t a daughter to him. I was...” she hesitated, trying to keep her emotions under control. Her voice had risen throughout the speech, and these were not things she’d ordinarily confess to anyone. She needed to rein in her feelings. “I don’t know what I was,” she concluded. She dared a glance at Shepard, whose mouth was drawn tight. Vakarian had stepped away, apparently examining their surroundings, although it was likely enough that he could hear her as well. “Oriana has had a normal life. I stand by my decision.” If Shepard couldn’t see that, wouldn’t follow Miranda because of this? She’d simply have to finish the job on her own.

 

But Shepard nodded, once slowly, then more decisively. “All right. If Eclipse knows where Oriana is, they’ll be moving in on her soon. We need to hurry.”

 

“Agreed,” said Miranda, more relieved than she could say.

 

They briefly reviewed what they knew of the cargo processing yard and set out, Shepard in the lead and Vakarian bringing up the rear. There was a lot of cover, and the Eclipse mercenaries were taking advantage of it, clustering behind crates, popping up behind conveyor belts. They could do the same, of course. Miranda and Vakarian took it turn to deal with the heavy shields of the enemy engineers, while Shepard plowed into the knots of Eclipse troopers, scattering bodies around her. Miranda backed her up with her biotics, taking advantage of the mess Shepard made to wrench armor out of shape and fling enemies to the ground. Vakarian picked off the heaviest units, the grenadiers and others, the sound of his rifle providing a steady rhythm between overloads. Shepard and Vakarian fell into rhythm with each other with the ease of old comrades, and Miranda might not have seen combat time recently, but she’d kept in practice. It wasn’t difficult to fit into the space left between her companions. In short, it was all going as smoothly as one could reasonably expect a combat mission to go, especially an impromptu one.

 

Smoothly enough, in fact, that she had time to start worrying. How could this be happening?

 

Miranda had _planned_ this. Down to the last detail. She’d pulled strings to get the right job openings for Oriana’s adoptive parents, an opportunity they could hardly refuse, jobs for each of them in their disparate fields opening in a location ripe with opportunity. The perfect location, really, one with abundant educational opportunities for her sister, plenty of intellectual and cultural stimulation, but _safe,_ well-populated, secure. Eclipse... she hadn’t planned on Eclipse. She should, perhaps, have expected that her father would send some real force, but so far the Eclipse team hadn’t proved to be more than a minor obstacle, thanks to Niket’s warning.

 

 _Niket won’t be helping you_ , the merc had said.

 

No. Mind games. They were trying to rattle her, shake her up. Niket wouldn’t do that. Niket understood. Didn’t he? He knew what her life had been like, at least, known how she’d chafed under her father’s rules and orders. Oh, she hadn’t told him everything—some things were too private for that—but she’d complained enough about her father’s demands. He knew how her father had stifled the life out of her, how he’d seen her as nothing more than a tool, an instrument for his legacy. To further his dynasty, perhaps—or perhaps not. Miranda’s mouth twisted into a bitter grimace at that thought as she ducked into cover, her amp a hot bloom at the base of her skull. Either her infertility was a hideous oversight on his part—a side effect of all the manipulation and genetic engineering, perhaps? Or the eezo implantation?—or it was planned from the start, in which case she had been intended precisely and exactly as a tool, and nothing more, never to have any future or hopes of her own. She pushed the thought aside forcibly. There was no time for that now; there would be time to consider her condition later.

 

Was Oriana sterile, too, or...?

 

 _No._ No time for that now. What mattered was to keep Oriana safe.

 

She moved, in Shepard’s wake, eyes scanning her surroundings, and slammed a salarian in Eclipse gear into a wall, her biotics humming along her spine. Vakarian finished the merc with a single well-placed shot.

 

But Niket _had_ understood, hadn’t he? He had lived on the estate and knew the staff, so surely he knew what her father was like, even beyond what Miranda herself had had to say. He’d cared enough to help her in the first place, when she’d determined that she couldn’t take it any more. He couldn’t possibly— why would he turn on her now? True, they hadn’t been close for some time. She had been fully occupied with work, and besides, it was dangerous for both of them to be in close contact with each other. They’d corresponded, though, on and off.

 

Niket was the first person Miranda could truly call a friend. He wouldn’t have betrayed her.

 

As if the thought had summoned it, she heard a feminine voice over the mercenaries’ comm frequency say, “... Niket’s making the switch. I’ll rendezvous with him there...”

 

Miranda frowned. More mind games? Did the mercs know she was tapped into their line?

 

Shepard cleared her throat, and Miranda stopped short, feeling a certain guilty flush rise in her cheeks as she nearly ran into the other woman. It wasn’t like her to lose her focus that way.

 

“Perimeter’s clear, no hostiles on scanner,” said Vakarian.

 

“Good,” Shepard said. “Looks like our access is this way.” She gave Miranda a long look—not a judgmental one, she thought, but rather a sort of measuring glance. Miranda fell into step with Shepard as she led the way to the lift. Shepard punched the button and glanced at Vakarian, making a tiny movement with her head. He took the hint and stepped away, his back toward them, watching their perimeter, while Shepard turned to Miranda. “Worried about what the merc said?”

 

Miranda pursed her lips and let out a slow breath. “No. I... no.” She forced herself to truly consider the possibilities. Niket had been loyal to her once, but she hadn’t seen him for a long time. He had his criminal and mercenary contacts, after all, and what if he’d owed someone money, or her father had offered him something, or... “If they’ve got to Niket somehow, this is going to be harder than I’d planned,” she said, unwillingly. Niket had been too crucial to the plan all along. He had all the details of the family’s relocation. It would be easy for him to interfere.

 

“Can he be trusted?” Shepard asked in a low tone.

 

“Niket is one of my oldest friends. He’s the only person I didn’t cut ties with when I left my father.” She sounded unconvincing even to herself.

 

Shepard nodded, but there was a tension to her expression that told Miranda she was reserving judgment. “Is there a chance that your father could be using Niket to get to you?”

 

“I’m sure he’s tried, but Niket is one of the few people who understands what my father is really like.” He’d understood, surely he had. She held on to the memory of her flight from her father’s house, the secret meetings they’d had, how Niket had pressed the documents she needed into her hands. He wouldn’t have... he wouldn’t do this. “I trusted him with my life when I ran from my father, Shepard. He won’t betray me now.”

 

She stole a look at Shepard, whose eyes were narrowed in thought. And, perhaps, suspicion, but all she said was, “Did he know about Oriana?”

 

Miranda’s breath caught and she stiffened. “No. He just found out about that recently. It was too... personal to involve somebody else.” She tried to chase away the doubt creeping into her mind. “I suppose I never thought about it, but... no. He’d have to understand why I did it. He knows what I went through.” Didn’t he? He had to remember, even after all this time. She forced herself to relax. “He could have turned on me when I ran away. If he didn’t do it then, why would he do it now?”

 

Shepard gave her a brief nod. “You’re the one who knows him, Miranda. If you don’t think he’d betray you, I’m sure there’s another explanation.”

 

Miranda’s teeth clenched again. Shepard’s tone was carefully even—so even that Miranda could read her doubt plainly.

 

And maybe she was right. Miranda was staking a lot on an old friendship. She’d chosen to risk a great deal—Oriana’s life, her freedom, her family’s safety—on the belief that Niket was as loyal as he’d been years ago. To her terror, that certainty was starting to erode. She said, “I don’t know, damn it! But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

 

Shepard nodded again. Vakarian held his silence. Miranda avoided both of their gazes as they stepped into the elevator and it began to rise.


	11. Chapter 11

They all readied themselves for action as the lift approached its destination. When the chime sounded, Miranda tensed; and when the door opened, Shepard took the lead, with Vakarian and Miranda flanking her. Miranda felt her every nerve drawn taut as a bowstring. She took in their surroundings swiftly—they were on the top level of the cargo terminal, surrounded by stacks of crates. Right in front of them, three people: two asari, one in the uniform of the transit station, the other in Eclipse armor—and Niket. All three turned to face Miranda and her companions, and for a moment she couldn’t look at anything but him.

 

Niket looked older, and harder, than she remembered. There were fine lines around his eyes and mouth. His brown hair was close-cropped, and he wore a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. She knew him at once, regardless of the changes of the years. He, on the other hand, stared back at Miranda, squinting as if he didn’t recognize her, before his eyes widened and he straightened slightly. “Miri.”

 

His tone was startled, and her stomach sank. One word was enough. He hadn’t expected her, didn’t want to see her here, where he was meeting with his Eclipse contact. She’d been wrong to trust him. All her uncertainty congealed into anger.

 

“This should be fun,” announced the asari in Eclipse armor. Enyala, or so Miranda presumed. Enyala hopped off the crate she had been perched on, her shotgun coming into her hands with casual ease. Miranda reached for her pistol in turn. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Shepard and Vakarian bringing their own weapons to bear.

 

The other asari looked from one armed party to the other and turned to flee. Enyala took aim and shot her in the back, immediately swinging her weapon back to aim at Shepard even as the transport officer fell with a cry.

 

Miranda chose to ignore her. Shepard and Vakarian could take care of the mercenary; she had a traitor to deal with. She kept her eyes on that poor excuse for a _friend_. “Niket. You sold me out.” Every syllable felt like a stone falling from her lips.

 

His mouth twisted, but he said nothing. Instead, Shepard asked, in calm, even tones, “How do you want to handle this, Miranda?”

 

She should simply eliminate the opposition and go, make sure Oriana’s passage would go unimpeded. That was the cold, rational decision. Niket looked at her without backing down, but with a trace of fear in his face, as if that’s what he expected from her.

 

She couldn’t bring herself to pull the trigger, though. Not without answers. “Why, Niket?” she demanded. “You were my friend. You helped me get away from my father.” That was the thing she couldn’t grasp: why would he help her escape then, only to send Oriana back to their father’s house now?

 

“I did,” he said, voice rising. “Because _you_ wanted to leave. That was your choice, Miri. But if I’d known that you’d stolen a baby—”

 

She could not, would not, put up with the judgment in his tone. He _knew_ what she’d been through. How dare he criticize her actions? “I didn’t steal her!” she snapped. “I rescued her!”

 

“From a life of wealth and happiness? You weren’t saving her! You were getting back at your father!”

 

Miranda stared, every muscle tensing. Was that truly all he’d seen? A petulant girl, fleeing from the lap of luxury? She’d thought he’d _understood_. Her anger began to settle into something cold, freezing her voice in her throat. She had to make a deliberate effort to keep her stance poised but loose.

 

Shepard spoke, filling the silence. She kept her even tone, but Miranda knew that that voice more than once presaged carnage. “Whether or not you agree with Miranda, Oriana has been with her family for years now. She deserves to stay with the people she knows as her family.”

 

Niket scoffed. “She doesn’t deserve to know the truth? Her father can still give her a better life.”

 

That loosened Miranda’s tongue. “You don’t know what my father wants for her!”

 

“I know that I’ve been poor, Miri. I didn’t much care for it.”

 

Cold anger surged through her system, bracing as a winter wind. If money was the only thing he could see, then— she’d been a fool all along.

 

“How did Miranda’s father turn you?” Shepard asked.

 

“They told me you’d kidnapped your baby sister, Miri. They said I could help get her back peacefully. No trauma to the family.” His voice grew harsher. “I told them you’d never do that. That they could go to hell. Then you finally told me what you’d done. I called them back that night.”

 

Miranda held Niket’s gaze. He stared back, lifting his chin. Obviously he saw himself as the hero in this scenario. He kept on using that old nickname, too, as if he had a right to it, but she wasn’t a girl who needed saving any more. She could feel her teeth clenching. He really didn’t understand, and never had. She should have known, she supposed, but somehow she’d never seen it. Too young, perhaps, too naive. Still, her voice shook as she gave him one more chance to explain himself. “Why didn’t you call _me_ , Niket? Why didn’t you ask me when I called you? We’ve been through a lot. You could’ve at least let me explain.”

 

He crossed his arms, looking defensive. “I deserved to know that you’d stolen your sister, Miri. But I had to hear it from your father first.”

 

Her mouth curled into a snarl at that piece of self-righteousness. “It looks like I was right not to trust you,” she spit out.

 

He flinched. Miranda found that she took a spiteful kind of satisfaction from it.

 

“Niket.” Enyala spoke now, her shotgun still pointed at Shepard, though her eyes flicked back and forth among her three opponents. “Stop wasting time. Let’s finish this and get out of here.”

 

One of her to the three of them? She must have a high estimation of her abilities.

 

Or back-up, close at hand.

 

“Wait,” said Niket, urgently. “Enyala, no, nobody needs to get hurt here—”

 

The asari snorted. “You still believe that, you’re dumber than I thought.”

 

Vakarian said, “Even with these two out of the picture, he probably passed on information to your father. He’ll have the family’s identity and destination now. Isn’t that true, Niket?”

 

The turian’s dry, even tones startled Miranda, and then she swallowed, against her tightening throat. Vakarian was right. If Niket had passed on what he knew—the information Miranda, like a fool, had passed on to _him_ —then they couldn’t keep Oriana safe this way. She needed an entirely new plan.

 

But Niket was shaking his head wildly. “No... no. I didn’t tell him anything. I knew you had spy programs in your father’s system, Miri, so I kept it to myself. I’m the only one who knows.”

 

There was a solid chance he was lying, but Miranda looked at his eyes and hands and judged he might be telling the truth. That realization settled like a weight into her stomach. “That means you’re the only loose end,” she said, cool and remote. If her father had paid him off once, he could do it again. “This isn’t how I wanted it to end, Niket.”

 

She took aim, only to find Shepard’s grip locked onto her arm, yanking the weapon up. “Miranda, wait. You don’t want to do this.”

 

Incredulous, Miranda stared into Shepard’s earnest face. She meant it, her eyes focused and intent. Miranda shouldn’t have been surprised—not as long as she’d been studying Shepard—but still. Now? “This has to end here, Shepard,” she said softly. “My father will keep trying to find Oriana, and Niket knows too much.” Because Miranda herself had told him too much, but she’d deal with the bitter taste of her own folly later.

 

Shepard released her arm but was still half-blocking her aim. “Maybe Niket can still help us.” She turned back to the man, who hesitated, wavering. Torn, Miranda thought, between her father’s promised payment, his own self-righteousness, and fear for his life. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and opened his mouth—

 

“Screw this,” said Enyala, and blasted a hole through Niket’s chest. “I have a shipment to deliver.”

 

Fury rose through Miranda’s body. Before she knew it, she’d caught up the asari in a lift, the blue haze of twisted mass surrounding her. She could almost feel the surge of energy crackling through her nerves. “You’ll pay for that,” she grated out, and threw Enyala across the room. It was one of the hardest biotic throws she’d executed, she noted with a distant sort of pride, as the asari crashed to the floor on the other side of the stack of crates.

 

She stood for a second, breathing hard, with her fist clenched in the proper mnemonic, and heard the clatter of footsteps coming in on either side.

 

“Reinforcements,” Vakarian snapped.

 

“Can’t ever be easy,” Shepard said, as all three of them dashed for cover. “Miranda, keep watch on the left, shout if you need back-up. Garrus, on the right.”

 

“Got it,” he said, and there was a crackle of electronics. “At least two engineers with drones over here, drones disabled.”

 

“Miranda?” Shepard said, demanding a response.

 

Miranda gritted her teeth and peered over her crate. “On it.” Her fingers played over her omni-tool interface, activating a pulse that sent two mercenaries’ shields crashing.

 

“And where’s Enyala?” Shepard said over the comm, half to herself. She added, “Miranda, charging, on your ten,” and then slammed into the Eclipse engineer at that location. Miranda dropped her pistol and seized her submachine gun, opening a spray of fire at the engineer’s drone. She could hear the rattle of Vakarian’s assault rifle at her back. It was not their usual arrangement, and as she moved her arm into position, flinging an Eclipse trooper into the air and then dropping her, she wondered why Shepard had come to her side of the room.

 

She realized why the next second, as Shepard, grunting, slammed her elbow into one engineer’s face, turned, and fired her shotgun at the other. Shepard thought she needed help. Shepard, likely, thought she was compromised.

 

The hell with _that_. Miranda rolled into a better position and knocked out another one of those damned drones. She was angry, yes—and she rose to throw another mercenary into the wall before dropping gracefully back into a crouch—but that would not hind her, not today. Today, her anger sang through her blood and nerves and elevated her biotics to a new level. She could even spare a moment to support Vakarian, taking out a drone that some clever engineer had sent sidling up behind the turian. Miranda whirled back into position, noting Shepard’s location out of the corner of her eye—

 

She hit the floor, hard, momentarily stunned by the impact, and blinked up into Enyala’s smirking blue face. “I think you’re the one who’s gonna pay,” she sneered.

 

Miranda twisted, evading the asari’s punch and lunging for her own pistol. Her nerves burned and she couldn’t muster the concentration to sustain a biotic field, not just then. Enyala grabbed for her right arm and slammed Miranda back to the ground, pinning her arm to the floor in a tight, painful grip, until something red and heavy crashed into the asari. “Not today,” Shepard called out, breathlessly.

 

Freed of Enyala’s weight, Miranda rolled away from the two grappling biotics and retrieved her pistol. She took aim—Shepard and Enyala were engaged in a brutal collision of biotically charged limbs, surrounded by the haze of mass distortion. Miranda didn’t want to risk injuring Shepard, but it was easy to see Enyala in Eclipse’s light-colored armor instead of Shepard’s brilliant red. She chose her target carefully and squeezed the trigger. Enyala threw her head back with a scream of rage, and hurtled away before Miranda could get herself to her feet, leaving drops of violet blood in her wake.

 

“Keep after the troopers,” Shepard said, “I’ll take care of Enyala,” and vanished in her own trail of dark energy.

 

Miranda opened her mouth to protest and then shut it, clenching her teeth together. She’d promised to follow Shepard’s orders in combat.

 

For the rest of the fight, Shepard and Enyala occasionally shot past her in azure streaks while Miranda, grim and concentrating, picked off the remaining Eclipse. She and Vakarian kept moving, guarding one another’s backs, avoiding the mercenaries’ attempts to trap and surround them. Finally she heard Vakarian call, “Clear!”

 

“Clear on this side,” Miranda replied, looking for any further signals on her omni-tool’s scanner. “Shepard?”

 

She heard the sound of Shepard’s shotgun blast, and a crunch, and Shepard said, “She’s down.”

 

Miranda took a breath, wiping the sweat away from her forehead. “I need to get to Oriana.” Glancing around, she spotted where Niket lay in a pool of blood. She bit down the lump of bitterness. Her first friend—and yet they’d never really seen each other, had they? He’d helped her because he thought she needed rescuing, his eyes dazzled by her father’s wealth. And she’d been blinded, too, seeing in Niket something that he’d never been. She turned her back on the corpse and walked away, slowing her stride as she saw where Enyala had fallen. That was another of her mistakes; she’d let their argument continue too long, overlooking the asari, and so Niket was dead. Enyala had robbed both him and Miranda of their choices. She would have shot him herself, if Shepard had not stopped her, and the thought of that felt heavy in her chest. Would she have preferred to have done that job herself? Or for him to have changed his mind? She wasn’t sure.

 

Later. She put that thought aside, filed it away in her well-ordered memory for later consideration. What mattered now was to make sure that Oriana’s transfer occurred as it was intended. There would be time later to determine whether Niket had told the truth, whether Oriana was truly safe, or whether she would have to be moved again. With what happened today, they had at least bought some time. She started toward the security door separating the cargo area from the passenger terminal, Shepard and Vakarian close behind her.

 

“I can’t believe Niket sold me out,” she said, half to herself, as they waited for the security door to activate. “I never even saw it coming.”

 

“Join the club,” Vakarian said quietly.

 

Shepard shot him an indecipherable look. “You couldn’t have,” she said. “Even with all your upgrades, you’re human—fallible—just like the rest of us.”

 

Miranda shook her head, rubbing her forehead. “But I let it get personal, and I screwed up. Why didn’t you let me kill him? I could have handled that.” At least it would have been her choice then, she thought bitterly.

 

“You still cared for him, even if he betrayed you.”

 

Miranda took in a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth. Was it real caring, or just nostalgia? “I suppose you’re right. My father counted on that.” She closed her eyes. “Everything he ever gave me had some kind of hook to it, an angle for his long-term plan. That’s why I left it all behind when I ran.” She glanced back over her shoulder at Shepard. “Except Niket. Weakness on my part.”

 

“You didn’t leave your sister,” said Shepard.

 

Miranda managed a small smile. “Yes. You’re right. That’s something.” Precious little—for all her supposed perfection, she’d thoroughly botched this day.

 

The door opened, and they emerged into the passenger terminal. Despite the security alert in the cargo areas, the atmosphere here was hushed and tranquil. Miranda quickly spotted the family she recognized from their images: middle-aged parents, with Oriana, dressed in a fashionable asari-style dress. “There she is,” she said, more relieved than she could say. She scanned the room, but there was no sign of Eclipse. “She’s safe, with her family.” She fell quiet, looking at them for a long moment. Oriana was smiling, listening to something one of her parents was saying with bright eyes. It was all so normal: ordinary professional parents and a promising young woman, bound for the next phase of their lives. So unlike her father’s endless lectures, or his private tutors, or his habit of parading Miranda in front of people he wanted to impress. “Come on,” she said without looking away. “Let’s go.”

 

“Don’t you even want to say hello?”

 

She turned to Shepard in surprise, but she appeared completely serious, again. Miranda frowned. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s best for her. The less she knows about me, the better. She’s got her own life; I don’t need to complicate that for her.”

 

“She doesn’t need any details, but would it really be so bad for her to know she has a sister who loves her?”

 

Miranda looked down, considering. The thought of approaching Oriana, of breaching the invisible wall she’d put between them, made her heart pound, but something about Shepard’s expression pushed her on. Would it be so bad, indeed? Could they fit into each other’s lives, she and Oriana? Her sister was almost grown now... “I... guess not,” she said.

 

“We’ll wait,” said Shepard.

 

Having made her choice, Miranda would not drag her feet. She walked toward the family with her customary brisk stride. Oriana, facing her, saw her approach and started, her eyes widening. She said something to her mother and left the pair to cross to Miranda.

 

Miranda realized, abruptly, that she had not planned what she might say. She had imagined such a moment, on occasion, over the years, but here and now, she had not rehearsed anything. She had to say _something_. “Oriana—” she began.

 

“You do know me,” Oriana interrupted, an eager smile crossing her face. “Are you my... my mother?”

 

Miranda froze for a second. It was a logical enough conclusion, and she hated that she had to take the possibility away, but she would not lie to her sister in her first words. She was already shaking her head. “Sister. We’re sisters. I... it’s complicated.”

 

“Sisters,” Oriana breathed. A small vertical line appeared between her brows. “I didn’t expect that.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Miranda offered, feeling inadequate.

 

The younger woman shook her head. “No, no, don’t be! I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean— I’m so glad to meet you.”

 

Reassured, Miranda smiled, and took a moment to look at Oriana more closely. It was not like looking in a mirror. Oriana’s face was rounder, with a softness that Miranda had outgrown long ago. Oriana wore her hair short, touched with red, and her makeup was unsubtle, bright lips and eyeshadow that didn’t quite flatter her complexion. Would Miranda have looked the same at nineteen, without her adolescent tutelage in poise and presentation? She banished the thought, along with all the others she’d put away earlier that day. The two of them certainly passed for sisters, but they were hardly identical, no matter what their genes said—except perhaps about the eyes. Oriana’s were blue and clear, watching her with a bright, fearless concentration. “I’m glad to see you again, too.”

 

“Again,” Oriana murmured. “What about... our parents?”

 

Miranda pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “We... have no mother, and our father is not anyone you want to know.”

 

Oriana’s eyebrows went up, her lips rounding. “Oh! I... oh.” She frowned. “Does this have anything to do with the security alert?”

 

She should have known her sister would be clever enough to put the pieces together. “Yes,” Miranda said quietly, taking a step closer, “but don’t worry. You’re safe now. I wouldn’t let him take you back. Shepard and I took care of it.”

 

Oriana nodded, slowly, her frown settling in. She glanced toward Shepard for a moment before returning her focus to Miranda.

 

“This... wasn’t how I meant to do this,” Miranda said, searching for some normal line of conversation. “I... are you looking forward to your trip?”

 

Oriana burst out laughing. “But that’s such a boring question!”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Miranda, nettled.

 

Oriana shook her head, still laughing. “No, it’s all right, it’s just not what _I_ expected from my long-lost sister. Surely there must be something more interesting we could talk about! My life is so ordinary. I want to know about _you_.”

 

“I—” Miranda’s mind raced to think of something true, and yet safe to tell her sister. “We haven’t much time, and this isn’t really the place,” she hedged.

 

Oriana’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not just going to leave without a word, are you?”

 

Miranda closed her eyes. What had Shepard gotten her into? She hadn’t thought this through. Of course she couldn’t simply vanish from Oriana’s life again. “No,” she said. “I’ll— I’ll contact you. Securely. I’ll find a way.”

 

When she opened her eyes, Oriana had lit up with a sunny smile. “Perfect. Then we can really get to know each other.”

 

“Yes,” said Miranda, letting out her breath. “I shouldn’t keep you now,” she added, starting to step away. According to the schedule, they would need to board their flight soon.

 

“Wait!” Oriana called. “At least tell me what to call you.”

 

“It’s... Miranda,” she said, feeling unexpectedly awkward.

 

“Miranda.” Oriana nodded, her eyes bright. “Thank you.”

 

Miranda shook her head. “You don’t have to, not ever.”

 

Oriana’s eyebrows bent, quizzical, but she nodded again.

 

Giving her sister a last nod, Miranda returned to her companions. Shepard and Vakarian stood close together; Shepard was leaning one elbow against a railing, while Vakarian looked down at her. Miranda paused for a second, considering the bright, soft expression on Shepard’s face as she looked up at the turian. Miranda’s eyes narrowed for a moment, before she shook her head. Unexpected, perhaps, but Shepard surely wasn’t foolish enough to jeopardize the mission with unprofessional behavior. She lengthened her stride to join them. “That’s done,” she reported.

 

Shepard raised her eyebrows, but merely said, “All right,” and took the lead as they made their way back to the _Normandy_ ’s dock.

 

But before Miranda could fall into step with her, Vakarian cleared his throat. “Lawson, can I say something?”

 

She turned toward him, startled. He’d been civil enough, but he’d never sought her out except to discuss routine business. “Of course,” she said.

 

He tilted his head. The blue tint of his visor obscured his eye just enough that she couldn’t tell if he was actually looking at her. “You couldn’t have seen it coming,” he said.

 

Miranda blinked. “Pardon?”

 

“Your friend.” He shifted in place, slightly, and now he _was_ looking at her, the pale eyes stark and penetrating.

 

She shook her head as the two of them started moving, keeping within a few paces of Shepard. “I hadn’t seen him for years. I was foolish to trust him now.” Leaving aside her foolish assumption that he’d heard and understood her in her youth, she thought. All her memories of those days—the secret meetings with Niket, the whispered conversations on the estate grounds, his help that last night—all of them seemed colored, now, with the bitter awareness that he’d thought her only a spoiled rich girl, running away to spite her father, not fleeing a controlling megalomaniac.

 

“Maybe,” Vakarian said. “You had reason to trust him before.”

 

“I shouldn’t have staked my sister’s life on it now.” Miranda eyed the turian. He was looking at Shepard, she thought, with a peculiar intensity. “Thank you, by the way, for helping today.”

 

His mandibles shifted and his browplates twitched up as he looked back at her. “No need. We’re on the same team.”

 

The corner of her mouth turned up. “I didn’t think you liked Cerberus.”

 

He let out a faint chuckle. “You know I meant Shepard’s team.”

 

She chuckled herself. “I did.”

 

Shepard, glancing back over her shoulder, stopped to wait for them, and Miranda let the conversation go as they caught up.

 

The three of them parted on returning to the _Normandy_. There was no need for the usual team debriefing, and as Miranda made her way to her office, casting a critical eye over the crew members she passed, she began to feel the fatigue of it. Her muscles were sore, and she felt the curious hollow ache that came with prolonged use of biotics. She felt hungry, too, no doubt the energy draw from the biotics making itself felt, along with the stress of combat, her fear for Oriana, Niket—

 

She still wasn’t ready to think about him. She changed course and headed toward the galley to pick up something to eat. Her body needed fuel to replenish what she’d spent, and there was no point in dwelling on her problems before she’d done so. She nodded absently to Hadley and Goldstein as they passed her in the corridor and headed toward the cupboard of high-energy snacks meant for the ship’s unusually large complement of biotics. She glanced over the assortment of energy bars with a sigh; she was tired enough that even this choice seemed an overly difficult one.

 

It didn’t matter, she told herself, and reached for the first box on the shelf.

 

“Make up your mind, cheerleader,” sneered a voice from behind her. “You’re not the only one who needs a fucking snack.”

 

Miranda gritted her teeth as her temper flared. Jack was quite possibly the last person she wanted to deal with at the moment. Deliberately, she pulled a bar out of the box and turned to face the other woman. “What do you want, Jack?”

 

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I want something to eat, so get out of my fucking way.”

 

Miranda took a deep breath. It wasn’t the time to confront Jack on her attitude. She stepped to the side. “Fine. Help yourself.”

 

“I will.”

 

Miranda turned to walk away. She’d only taken a step when she heard Jack’s voice again. “Out in Nos Astra today, huh, cheerleader? What, looking for some more kids to conscript for Cerberus’ little projects?”

 

A fresh spike of anger set her temples pounding. Miranda wheeled on her heel. “That’s not what I do, and today’s mission was none of your business,” she ground out.

 

Jack watched her with a thin smile playing over her lips. “Oh? So you’re not a Cerberus flunky who doesn’t mind if they torture kids, then. Good to know.”

 

“That’s _not_ what Cerberus is about,” Miranda snapped.

 

“Oh yeah?” Jack took a step toward her, jutting her chin out. “It’s what they fucking well did. I don’t give a shit whether you’re lying to yourself, but stop lying to me.”

 

This was hardly the first time that Jack had taunted her on this subject. Usually she could let it pass without comment. Today? She took another breath, even though she could feel the dark energy ripple down her arm. Jack’s lip curled and she raised one hand, her own biotic field shimmering blue around her fist. With an effort of will, Miranda dismissed her own flare. She had to stay in control. “Not here,” she said.

 

“Anywhere, any time, bitch,” Jack growled.

 

Miranda’s jaw tightened until it hurt. “No,” she said sharply. “In my office. Now. We’ll discuss this privately.”

 

“I don’t answer to _you_ ,” Jack sneered. “I’m only here ‘cause Girl Scout made me a deal.”

 

Miranda straightened. “Fine. But I’m not going to squabble with you here like a child.” She turned her back, precise and deliberate, and strode toward her office, still clutching her energy bar.

 

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Jack snapped.

 

Miranda allowed herself a cold little smile, since Jack couldn’t see. The younger woman was so damned predictable. She entered the passcode to unlock her office, entered, and left the door open long enough for Jack to storm in after her. She couldn’t help herself then: “You’re easy to provoke, Jack. It’s a weakness.”

 

Jack’s face flushed. “I’ll show you a weakness, bitch. What, is this your play? You wanted to get me alone?”

 

“I’m attempting to act like a professional,” Miranda said. “I realize this is a novel concept for you.”

 

“Don’t act like you’re better than me,” Jack snarled. “You stuck-up, high-and-mighty bitch. What are you, some little rich girl, raised to be a pretty Cerberus cheerleader? You’ve never really had to fight, not like your precious Cerberus made me do.”

 

Miranda’s face contorted. “You know _nothing_ about me,” she snapped back. “You’re just an experiment gone wrong.” Her biotics sang along her nerves, and she braced herself to make a move.

 

The doors flew open as Jack shouted, “Touch me and I will smear the walls with you, bitch!” Blue flared around her as she hurled a chair in Miranda’s direction. It was easy to duck. Careless force, no finesse. Typical.

 

“Enough.” Shepard stood in the doorway, her voice ringing with authority. “Stand down, both of you.” Miranda barely contained her flinch; EDI must have alerted Shepard.

 

Jack said, without taking her eyes off Miranda, “The cheerleader won’t admit that what Cerberus did to me was wrong.”

 

Miranda’s lip curled. The same old complaint. “It wasn’t Cerberus. Not really. But clearly _you_ were a mistake.”

 

“Screw you! You got no idea what they put me through.” Jack’s eyes darkened. “Maybe it’s time I showed you.”

 

Miranda’s attention was still fixed on Jack, but she could see Shepard’s glare in her peripheral vision, as the commander said, “Our mission is too important to let personal feelings get in the way.”

 

“Fuck your feelings,” Jack snapped. “I just want her dead.”

 

Shepard came toward them, her jaw tight. “You both know what we’re up against. Save your anger for the Collectors.”

 

Miranda let out a breath. Shepard was right; this wasn’t the time. Jack was crude and volatile and stubborn, but Miranda could ignore her for the time being. “I can put aside my differences,” she said, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “until the mission’s over.”

 

Jack’s mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile, her eyes hard. “Sure. I’ll do my part. I’d hate to see her die before I get a chance to filet her myself.”

 

Miranda returned a right smile of her own. Jack turned toward the door, brushing past Shepard, who said, “You two going to be okay?”

 

Miranda waited until the doors closed behind Jack. She was ashamed of herself for rising to the bait, to tell the truth. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose and said with a sigh, “It’s a good thing you came by when you did. As long as she does her job, we’ll be fine. Thanks, Shepard.” She returned to her desk, vaguely aware of her terminal blinking with new messages, and dropped the squashed energy bar onto the desk surface.

 

Shepard hadn’t moved, though, and stood watching her with an expression that Miranda was too tired to puzzle out just now. “Is there anything else, Commander?” she asked wearily.

 

“You should have told me about your sister from the start,” Shepard said. Calm and even, again.

 

Miranda sighed. “Would it really have made a difference?” Could anything have changed the outcome of the day?

 

Shepard frowned. “You said she was your twin, Miranda. I need to have all the intel before we hit the ground. You know that.”

 

“She is my twin, but... it won’t happen again,” Miranda said softly, letting her weary eyes unfocus as she stared at her desk.

 

Shepard sighed a little. “No, I guess not. How are you holding up?”

 

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Miranda said. She shook her head slowly. “I... nothing turned out the way I’d planned. I’d left everything behind, I’d cut all those ties, except Niket...” She cut herself off, remembering the stubborn expression on his face, and the sound his body had made falling to the floor.

 

Shepard shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You can’t toss aside everything you care about just to be safe. I know you thought you needed separation, but—”

 

Miranda shook her head again. “It’s all right.” She lifted her eyes to meet Shepard’s. The commander looked genuinely concerned, frowning, those green eyes earnest. “My father hurt me,” Miranda explained to those worried eyes, “but he didn’t break me. No matter what he wanted, I’m my own person.” She took a breath, trying to believe it. Today, though, she’d stood up to his hirelings, not simply fled. It was a victory, even if it was more bitter than she’d hoped. “My sister will be the same,” she concluded.

 

Shepard nodded. “You made sure of that.”

 

Miranda let herself smile. “I did.”

 

“All right. I’ll let you get back to work.” Shepard turned toward the door and then hesitated. “If you want to talk about it—”

 

Miranda’s smile grew in amusement, remembering her own offer to Shepard some weeks before, after her quarrel with Vakarian. “I doubt that will be necessary, Shepard. But thank you.”


	12. Chapter 12

“I trust your personal business is now resolved, Miranda?”

 

“It’s taken care of, yes,” Miranda replied, watching the Illusive Man take a drag on his cigarette. When using the QEC, too often she felt like the hologram, a thin projection of herself in the man’s office, rather than vice versa. She knew that was how he saw the situation, but it bothered her that it affected her own perceptions that way.

 

The Illusive Man exhaled, the curl of smoke winding around his head. “Your sister is secured, then?”

 

“Oriana is safely relocated, yes.” She had cautiously opened contact with the younger woman, who seemed delighted to send chatty messages about settling into her new environment.

 

“And there will be no further repercussions for the mission?”

 

“None.” She kept her eyes on his, as if they were actually meeting face to face. “Shepard was quite helpful. She appears to be performing well under pressure.”

 

“And the rest of the team?” Another puff. “These personal excursions are taking a certain amount of time.”

 

“The team is coming together,” Miranda said briskly. “Shepard wants to bring the team together before collecting the IFF from Chandana’s group, and I’m acceding to her wishes, as you ordered.”

 

“Nonetheless,” the Illusive Man said.

 

Miranda waited, and when no answer appeared to be forthcoming, she said, “Sir?” as blandly as possible.

 

“I’m eager to see results, Miranda. The Collectors are still targeting human colonies.”

 

“I know,” she said. “We’ve been tracking that data. It would be helpful if we had better reports from Chandana’s team. What we’re getting is... a little fragmentary.”

 

The Illusive Man never blinked often enough. Miranda had met with him enough over the years to have gotten used to it—the cybernetic eyes didn’t need lubrication the way organic eyes did, apparently—but she thought the stare was measurably longer this time. “I’ll have Chandana informed that you find his reports inadequate,” he said at last.

 

“Shepard prefers to have more intel on the situation before taking in her team,” Miranda said, a little too fast.

 

“Shepard can prefer whatever she likes,” the Illusive Man said. “One of her best traits is her ability to improvise. Speaking of Shepard, I haven’t heard progress on your recruitment efforts.”

 

Miranda took a deep breath. “She’s proven... resistant. She’s difficult to convince.” She had met every attempt of Miranda’s to discuss Cerberus with a volley of criticism.

 

“Difficult? You’ve already accomplished the impossible, Miranda. You brought her back.”

 

Her jaw tightened. “I’m aware of that, sir.”

 

“Don’t let her talk you around.” He took a drag on the cigarette.

 

Miranda frowned. “Talk me around?”

 

“She’s charismatic. Persuasive. It’s part of why we need her.” He pointed the glowing tip of the cigarette at her. “Just remember who’s recruiting whom.” He waved his hand, the glowing tip of the cigarette inscribing bright lines in the air. “I want results. That’s why you’re there. Get me your report on the team’s status by tomorrow, Miranda. You’re dismissed.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said, but the interface had already flickered off, leaving her standing alone in the too-bright lights of the comm room. She sighed, lowering her head, watching her hair tumble forward over her shoulder and reviewing the meeting in her mind. She’d sounded overly defensive, she feared. At least she’d maintained a professional demeanor when he asked her about Oriana. She’d told him the matter was resolved, but she couldn’t quite shake the image of Niket’s death from her memory. Her frustration with him hadn’t dimmed—admittedly the events had only occurred a few days ago—but she couldn’t deny that grief had joined her frustration. Niket had created his own problems, she told herself. He’d chosen not to trust her, and he’d set himself up for his own murder.

 

She could tell herself these things, but now that Niket was gone, it was hard not to remember the younger man he’d been, how he’d helped her. Whatever his motives had been—even if he hadn’t truly understood her or taken her seriously—he’d still offered her help when no one else would. She couldn’t help but be grateful for that; she also couldn’t help but regret that now she’d never have the chance to see if they could come to a better understanding, now that they were both grown.

 

No, no matter what else was true, she’d couldn’t forget how many mistakes she’d made that day. Foolish mistakes, mistakes that she’d castigate a subordinate for making. That she and Oriana had emerged unscathed was largely through Shepard’s good efforts.

 

Miranda returned to her office more abstracted than usual. Shepard was... Shepard shouldn’t be able to do what she did. She was a nobody who’d come from nothing. She’d made the most of her opportunities, somehow—surviving the raid on Mindoir, the attacks on Elysium and Eden Prime—and she’d accomplished things that no one had thought possible. There was some spark there, that even after years of studying the commander’s background, even after hours spent observing her work, Miranda didn’t fully understand. It _bothered_ her. She herself had been created for perfection, but had fallen short. What was it that Henry Lawson had left out of his greatest creation, that Shepard had somehow achieved on her own?

 

She didn’t know. Miranda sighed and rubbed her temples. She opened the report she owed the Illusive Man, analyzing the squad’s preparation, but stared at the haptic interface.

 

And was it true? Was Shepard trying to win her over, trying to undermine her ties to Cerberus? The idea wormed its way into her head and settled there. It wasn’t implausible; Shepard had openly admitted that she was taking personal time, and personal favors, with the other crew members to help secure their loyalty. Did she feel the same about helping Miranda? She frowned down at her desk, her lips tightening. She wasn’t that easily shaken from her course; Shepard needed to see that. Since her last conversation with Shepard, Miranda had requested and reviewed the reports on Shepard’s previous encounters with Cerberus. Most pertinently, she had requested the Cerberus-side reports, and while she couldn’t be certain they were complete (especially given the violent destruction of the experiments in question), it gave her some insight. But somehow she had to find the words to persuade Shepard—and while Shepard’s own persuasive capabilities were relentless, she seemed equally unmovable when it came to Cerberus. It was so _frustrating_. Cerberus was not only the organization that had given Miranda the opportunities and security she so desperately needed, they also stood the best chance of truly advancing humanity, of giving humans a strong bargaining platform in the world of galactic politics. Somehow Miranda had to persuade Shepard of that, had to make her see that the Council would never give humans anything they could not take for themselves, and that the Systems Alliance was an institution that had never been intended to negotiate with other complex civilizations, and was hardly up to the task.

 

She still had time, however. A few more days, yet, before their next major move, and in the meantime, the Illusive Man wanted this report tomorrow. She started typing.

 

#

 

“Is there anything else we need to talk about?” Shepard asked at the end of their daily briefing, two days later.

 

Miranda hesitated, her grip tightening on her stylus. She had thought matters through as best she could, though, and she was make the attempt. She had to make the attempt, and the words were not coming any more easily. “Yes. There is something. Shepard, I...” She rose from her desk chair and took a seat at the end of the couch instead. Sitting behind her desk, as usual, felt too impersonal. Shepard quirked an eyebrow but followed Miranda’s lead, sitting at the other end of the couch. “I owe you an apology,” Miranda said. “Frankly, I hadn’t thought you’d be fully up to the task, and it seems I was wrong.” It was a true sentiment, but it might also mollify Shepard for what came next.

 

The corner of Shepard’s mouth turned up. “Apology accepted.”

 

And now for her real opening shot. “Actually, I wish Cerberus had recruited you earlier.”

 

She watched Shepard’s reaction closely. A crease appeared between the commander’s brows. “I thought we’d been over this. I trust you,” she said slowly, “but I don’t trust Cerberus. Not after what I’ve seen. Your experiments have crossed the line too many times.”

 

Miranda was ready for this one. She leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee. “At times, yes. But I seem to recall a Spectre who crossed some lines while hunting down Saren and the geth. Sometimes it’s necessary to get things done.”

 

“Sometimes,” Shepard allowed, but her face didn’t give much away.

 

Miranda pressed on. “We need more people to join Cerberus for the right reasons, not out of simple xenophobia.”

 

Shepard’s eyebrows rose. “What would you say are the right reasons?”

 

“The advancement of humanity,” Miranda replied easily. “Securing humanity’s place in the galaxy. We need to pursue our own ends, not wait for the other races to hand us our place.”

 

“So anything is justified for that?” Shepard asked, her voice calm and her eyes sharp. “What about experiments being performed on children, like Jack?”

 

“That was a mistake, for sure. Not mine,” Miranda added. “One that was corrected when we learned the extent of the experiments being performed.”

 

“Not soon enough,” Shepard returned. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s not the only thing, either. I saw your bases, back during the hunt for Saren. You were using rachni, Thorian creepers, even husks to breed an army.”

 

Miranda had gone over these reports with a fine-toothed comb, so she could answer with confidence. “The husks were already dead. The Thorian creatures were mindless, and the rachni were abandoned once we understood the extent of their intelligence.”

 

“Or once you realized you couldn’t control them,” Shepard said.

 

Miranda’s voice rose. “We were trying to breed expendable shock troops for high-risk scenarios. How many died in Saren’s attack on Eden Prime? How many would have lived if we’d had just a dozen rachni soldiers on our side?”

 

Shepard shook her head sharply. “No. I regret the loss of life as much as anyone, but the ends don’t justify the means.”

 

“Why risk human life if there’s an alternative? Why shouldn’t the ends justify the means?”

 

“How can you say that?” Now Shepard’s voice was rising, too. Miranda leaned forward, lips parting to answer, but Shepard continued. “After how your father made you? What were his ends? Were they justified? I’m sure he thought so.”

 

Miranda jerked back as if struck. Shepard kept going, relentless, her eyebrows drawn together. “It’s not just the one thing, Miranda, it’s everything. Shock troops are one thing, but really think about that word _expendable_. Then there’s the murder of Admiral Kahoku, and the project that made Jack. What’s going to be next? Cerberus crosses the ethical boundaries over and over again. What ugly skeleton is going to come rattling out of the closet next? All in pursuit of vague ends that no one can define for me. The advancement of humanity sounds a hell of a lot like the supremacy of humanity.”

 

Miranda stared at her, momentarily frozen. “Don’t talk about my father to me.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Shepard rose to her feet, rubbing her palms against her thighs. “Let’s just... was there anything else?”

 

Miranda sat up, her spine rigid. “No,” she said shortly.

 

“Right. I’ll let you get back to work.”

 

The office seemed to ring with silence after Shepard had left. It could an effort for Miranda to control her breathing and collect herself.

 

#

 

“Miranda.” Shepard’s voice over the comm sounded tight and weary. “I need a team down here at Hermes Station. I’d like you to lead it.”

 

Miranda paused. Shepard had taken Vakarian and Goto down to Aite just under three hours previously, to check on a Cerberus project that had gone dark. It had seemed ordinary enough, as the _Normandy_ team’s normal routine of dangerous assignments went. Shepard had pointedly not said anything to refer to her last outburst when they got the Illusive Man’s request, and Miranda had returned the favor. It was one more token of the frosty professionalism she’d taken refuge in since that disastrous conversation of the other day; Miranda had even limited her commentary on Shepard’s ill-advised pursuit of an asari predator or her insistence on solving Tali’Zorah’s political problems. The matters had been dealt with in Shepard’s usual style, and Miranda had confined their further talk to necessary business.

 

Shepard’s current overture was, therefore, unexpected. “What’s the situation?” Miranda asked briskly.

 

“The team here was experimenting with geth,” Shepard said flatly. “As usual, the Illusive Man didn’t see fit to provide us with any actual intel, but that’s the ‘highly volatile’ technology they were using. Somehow they got a human brain hooked into a geth network, it woke up the geth, and the geth took over. It’s a mess down here, Miranda. I need a team to dispose of the bodies and clear whatever data we can get off the computers.”

 

Miranda fingers curled over the edge of her desk. “Are there any survivors?”

 

“One of the project leads, Gavin Archer. Know him?”

 

“Only by reputation.” Archer was supposed to be brilliant and relatively diligent. “Is that all?”

 

There was a brief silence. “I don’t think they were expecting the revolt—they were mostly unarmed techs down here and a few security guards. Archer’s the only one we’ve found alive.”

 

Miranda frowned at the picture Shepard presented. “I see,” she said. “I’ll bring a team down.”

 

“Good. I’m taking Garrus and Kasumi and the Hammerhead out to the other installations. There shouldn’t be enough bandwidth on this comm line to accommodate geth data, but be careful. Whatever you get off their systems, lock it away from the _Normandy_ ’s until we’re sure there’s no possibility of system takeover.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And... I know you and she don’t get along that well, but take Tali. If there’s any geth programming still lingering in the system, she’ll spot it before anyone else.”

 

Miranda bit back a momentary irritation. Her personal feelings about a crew member had no bearing on her ability to work with them, and Tali’Zorah was clearly the crew’s AI expert. “Certainly.”

 

#

 

Shepard had not exaggerated. The facility was the scene of carnage, and Miranda surveyed it with distaste: blood on the walls, bodies lying at haphazard angles with glazed eyes. Half an hour to assemble her team, another twenty minutes to take the shuttle down; Shepard had called in during that time to indicate that she’d finished her business at Vulcan Station and was on her way to Prometheus.

 

Tali’Zorah sniffed audibly. “Typical.”

 

“You’ve seen this before?” Jacob inquired, where Miranda would have let the remark pass.

 

The quarian’s eyes glinted gold through her helmet. “I saw what things were like on Chasca and Nodacrux. Cerberus has left a lot of messes in its wake.”

 

“See what you can get off the computers,” Miranda ordered, ignoring her commentary.

 

Tali sniffed again and turned away, already firing up her omni-tool.

 

Miranda sent Jacob and Mordin to deal with the bodies and check the IDs. Jacob would assemble the personnel roster of the station, and Mordin was to examine the remains for anything unusual, though it appeared so far that they had all died of easily explainable gunshots.

 

Miranda herself went to deal with Gavin Archer.

 

Dr. Archer was nervous and sweaty, and her estimation of his capabilities ticked down a notch. “Operative Lawson—everything is so perfectly ghastly, but you must—”

 

“Shepard is dealing with your AI mess,” she informed him, activating a program on her omni-tool. “Tell me what happened.”

 

He rambled his way through a report that included a bit too much technical detail on what they were attempting to do with the geth, and not nearly enough explanation on how exactly his project had gone awry. Miranda regarded him coolly, trying to decide whether he was hiding something, or simply that poorly organized. “The loss of life and Cerberus assets here is staggering, Dr. Archer,” she said. “I am not impressed with your recklessness or your management of this crisis. I’ll be informing the Illusive Man—”

 

Archer scoffed, and then quickly looked away as Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?” she said, cool and sweet.

 

He huffed again, fingers drumming on the arm of the chair, and looked back at her. “The Illusive Man was going to pull the funding for this whole operation unless he got _results_ ,” he said bitterly. “So tell him whatever you want, but it’s on his head.”

 

Miranda stared at him unblinking, until he stopped glaring at her defiantly, and his eyes shifted away again. “He wasn’t the one who plugged a human being into the geth consciousness,” she said.

 

Archer flinched and some of the color fled from his cheeks. “It... he volunteered,” he mumbled.

 

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. She was nearly sure Archer was hiding something. “Could you assist Operative Taylor in identifying the dead? As you were their supervisor, it might be of assistance.”

 

Archer blanched further. He probably had little experience being around dead bodies. “I—ah—I worked principally at Atlas station, the staff here were directly supervised by—”

 

“Then how exactly did you come to be here?” Miranda inquired blandly.

 

Archer went still for a second and then his spine straightened. “I left Atlas Station after the geth had taken over. I came here to comm for help, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Miranda echoed. “Thank you for your assistance.” She hoped the sarcasm didn’t come through. “Do please assist Operative Taylor.”

 

His jaw worked for a moment, and his eyes shifted away. “Fine,” he said after a moment, and shoved himself out of the chair.

 

Miranda waited until he had gone before beginning her review of the information she had drawn from his omni-tool. It was a Cerberus device, and she had an access code which allowed her to pull data from it. She didn’t use the code often—the most difficult members of the _Normandy_ crew had their own omni-tools, anyway—but in this kind of situation, it was useful.

 

Half an hour later she emerged from the office with her temper barely restrained. “Where’s Archer?” she demanded of Tali’Zorah, the first person she spotted.

 

The quarian looked around from her work, startled. “He passed by a little while ago, why?”

 

“He—” Miranda took a breath, trying to control herself. “It was his own brother he plugged into the geth,” she said at last, coldly. His brother, who was registered as Gavin Archer’s legal dependent.

 

She could clearly hear Tali’Zorah’s intake of breath. “He would— do that to his own family?”

 

“Evidently,” Miranda ground out.

 

Tali fidgeted in place. “Well, I’ve, uh—I think I’ve isolated the geth programming in the system.”

 

“Get all the data you can,” Miranda said. “I’m particularly interested in his progress reports to Cerberus command, and the replies.” Archer’s omni-tool had had his own, self-serving journal, not his official communications. She’d quite like to see what Archer had actually told the Illusive Man, and vice versa.

 

The quarian ducked her head. “I’m on it.”

 

It was the most willing compliance Miranda had heard from her in ages. She gave Tali a short nod and marched on in search of the errant scientist.

 

When she found Jacob, he was standing by a row of body bags, datapad in hand and a grim expression on his face. She cast a quick look around, but saw no sign of Gavin Archer. “Where’s Archer?”

 

Jacob looked up and gave her a puzzled glance. “He took off a little while ago—said you told him to check one of the other stations.”

 

“That liar,” she spat, and Jacob flinched.

 

“He took one of the ground vehicles. He can’t have gotten that far.”

 

“True,” Miranda allowed, her mind working. “He’s probably headed to Atlas Station.”

 

“Shepard indicated she was on her way there, maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

 

Miranda nodded. “Can we raise her on the comms?”

 

She wasn’t surprised, somehow, that there was interference on the channel—either something to do with Atlas Station and the AI there, or something Archer had caused. Either way, all they could do was wait for Shepard to return.

 

#

 

“You should have shot him,” Miranda told Shepard in the end. They stood side by side, watching Mordin and Dr. Chakwas take David Archer onto a shuttle and back to the _Normandy_ for treatment.

 

“Don’t think I didn’t think about it,” Shepard replied.

 

His own brother. Miranda still couldn’t fathom it; what Archer had done made her heart pound with a cold rage. But she’d taken the time while they waited to look at the stored communications Tali’Zorah had found her. Gavin Archer’s claims about the Illusive Man wanting _results_ had been ringing unpleasantly in her head. She could remember her own instructions on that point all too well. And he hadn’t lied about that, not entirely. The Illusive Man had indeed been pressing him to come up with something. The idea of attaching his savant brother’s brain to the geth consensus had been entirely Archer’s, but still...

 

Shepard had a point, about how these things kept happening. There were reasons for all those Cerberus projects Shepard liked to list as cautionary tales, but here... the costs had been high, and the results paltry by comparison.

 

“Can I ask you a question, Miranda?”

 

“Of course,” she said automatically.

 

Shepard said, “With your intelligence and ability, you could have landed a job anywhere. Why Cerberus?”

 

“Aside from the fact that Cerberus could keep my father at bay?” Miranda took a breath as Shepard nodded, and tried to clear her mind. “Cerberus never tells me something’s impossible. They give me my resources and tell me to do it. I’ve accomplished things here that I could never dream of elsewhere. Just look what they’ve given you—even more,” she added pointedly. “A new life, a new ship, the Illusive Man’s personal attention...”

 

Shepard snorted. “Some compliment. Do you disapprove?”

 

“No!” Miranda exclaimed, surprised. “Actually, I’m impressed. A colony kid, growing up in a pre-fab unit, losing even that when the batarians attacked... And you’ve done more than I could. In spite of everything my father did to make me perfect, you’re... you’re the best humanity has to offer.” She couldn’t contain the note of wistfulness.

 

Shepard half turned and seemed to pin Miranda with her gaze. “You always bring up your genetic tailoring. It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

 

“This is what I am, Shepard.” Miranda turned to meet her eyes. “I can’t hide it. The intelligence, the looks,” she gestured to herself, “even the biotics... he paid for all of that. Every one of your accomplishments is due to your skill. The only thing I can take credit for are my mistakes.” Her jaw tightened as she thought back over the mistakes that had gotten Niket killed, that could have cost Oriana her freedom. Did Gavin Archer regret what he’d done?

 

Shepard shook her head, in that crisp, decisive way she had. “You’re not coasting on good genes, Miranda. Your hard work and dedication speak for themselves.”

 

Miranda sighed. “Thank you for saying so, Commander.”

 

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Shepard turned to watch the shuttle take off. “What matters is what you do once you know you’ve made one.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

“He unshackled the AI. You’re just going to let that go?”

 

Miranda knew her voice was sharp, and when Shepard’s mouth tightened, she felt a little flash of victory. It was nearly the first positive thing she’d felt since they returned to find the ship boarded and Moreau the only survivor. Since then, the ground team had been thrown into crisis mode, trying to prepare the _Normandy_ for its critical voyage through the Omega-4 relay with too few hands.

 

Shepard sighed and ran a hand over her face. She was still in armor, her face worn and her eyes shadowed with dark circles. She sat down heavily in her usual chair; Miranda had spoken as soon as Shepard entered her office, eager to get in the first word.

 

“What was he supposed to have done?” Shepard asked.

 

It was a fair point, and Miranda leaned back in her own chair, frowning. “I know that EDI’s been invaluable, but she was always intended to remain shackled.”

 

Shepard nodded, letting out a long breath. “But if she can be trusted to handle some vital systems, why not others? And she’s worked well with us. Haven’t you, EDI?”

 

“You are my crew,” EDI said, in her usual calm tone. “I too wish to recover the rest of the crew.”

 

Shepard raised her eyebrows at Miranda, who sighed. She had never felt more aware of the fact that the AI was always listening. “You’re putting a lot of trust in these AIs, Shepard.”

 

“Oh.” Shepard’s eyebrows twitched as she leaned back in the chair, twisting to rest her elbow on the back. “You’re still unhappy about Legion, then.”

 

Miranda pressed her lips together, tightening her right hand into a first. She’d made her case to turn the geth over to Cerberus when Vakarian and Massani had first carted it aboard. Since then, she had kept her thoughts largely to herself. Shepard had chosen her course: she met with the geth regularly, visiting it on her rounds just as if it were a member of the crew. She had even brought it out with her, naming it, trying to integrate it with the crew. There was something unnerving about having the towering robotic form, with the familiar geth “flashlight head,” walking around the ship and trying to make polite conversation with people. Miranda knew both Jacob and Tali had expressed concerns to Shepard about it. She said, “I will admit that Legion was very helpful in the recent training exercise. But there are reasons we have not generally coexisted with true AI, Shepard—”

 

“Have we tried?” Shepard leaned forward now, her eyes suddenly bright. “Usually we just pull the plug as soon as we can, don’t we?”

 

“The history of AI development is somewhat more complex than that,” Miranda said, with some irritation. There was a germ of truth to what Shepard said, but she was dramatically oversimplifying the situation. “The quarian experience with the geth by itself shows how dangerous uncontrolled AI could be.”

 

“Yes, but if the geth are willing to fight with us against the Reapers?” Shepard said. “I think it’s worth the risk. We’re going to need every asset we can.”

 

Miranda frowned, unable to deny the truth of it. It ran against her every instinct, but taking risks was one of Shepard’s strengths. Maybe it would pay off this time, once again. Finally she said, reluctantly, “I know.”

 

“We’re already trusting EDI with our lives,” Shepard pointed out. “If she chose, she could vent the ship right now.”

 

Miranda raised an eyebrow, fighting down a certain visceral shudder at the bald statement. “I’m aware of that, Shepard.”

 

“I would not do that,” came EDI’s voice, sounding almost sweet. “I wish to preserve the lives of my crew.”

 

Shepard nodded, seeming satisfied. “We’ll just have to keep trusting her.”

 

Miranda nodded with another sigh. Something in her simply prickled, uneasy, at the thought of the unshackled AI. She hadn’t minded EDI’s installation on the ship in the first place, precisely _because_ of the shackles. She’d understood that programming. Now, EDI was hooked into the ship’s every system, and there was nothing to hinder her continued development as an intelligence. The advantage of that was that EDI was well able to compensate for the missing crew members. That realization did not make Miranda feel any better. They were responsible for those people— _she_ was, as Executive Officer and as the Cerberus operative in charge of the cell—and the Collectors had taken them.

 

Beyond that, Miranda couldn’t shake the suspicion that the Illusive Man had known that the IFF might draw the Collectors down on their heads. What she’d seen of Chandana’s reports had been redacted, and not always coherent. Other analysts must have seen the unfiltered reports, though, and reported to the Illusive Man accordingly. She didn’t like the idea; Shepard was rubbing off on her, both her sense of responsibility and her paranoia. But it would fit the pattern of his recent actions. Miranda shook her head, trying to put the suspicion out of her mind, as she and Shepard reviewed the ship’s preparations.

 

“I wish we had more intel on what was over there,” Shepard said, once they had finished.

 

“So do I,” Miranda replied. There was no escaping the fact that they were flying into a great unknown. They would simply have to adapt and respond to what was on the other side.

 

Shepard stood. “I think that’s all we’ve got. Try to get some rest, Miranda. I’m sure even the genetically perfect need sleep before a tough mission.” She offered a smile, taking any sting from her words.

 

Miranda looked up at her, surprised at the mild teasing, then smiled in turn. “A few hours,” she admitted. “I’ll just check the numbers from Engineering, since Tali doesn’t have the rest of the staff to help her.”

 

“I think Legion checked them, but go ahead,” Shepard said.

 

Miranda shook her head. “A quarian and a geth, working together. Who would have thought it?”

 

Shepard chuckled. “Not me, as of a couple of weeks ago.”

 

“Be sure to get some rest yourself,” Miranda added as Shepard moved toward the door.

 

Shepard hesitated on the threshold. “Yeah, I... I will.” She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes shadowed. “Anything you’d like to do while you have the chance?”

 

Miranda blinked before putting on a smile, folding her hands together in front of her. “Shepard, you’re talking as if we’re not coming back. But you’ve said yourself—”

 

“—that I have no intention of going on a suicide mission,” Shepard finished. “Yeah.”

 

They looked at each other for a long moment before Shepard nodded, her shoulders straightening just a little. “Right. See you in a little while, Miranda.”

 

#

 

In truth, it was only common sense to make _some_ effort to tie up one’s affairs.

_Dear Oriana,_ she wrote, and stopped.

 

Miranda could have opened a chat with Oriana—the time difference wasn’t ideal for it, but her sister was a student and likely to be up late at night.

 

In truth, she wanted to avoid the potential... messiness... of a real-time conversation about where she was going. The tentative correspondence she and Oriana had begun since they had met did not give her the confidence to predict her sister’s reaction to the news. Their communications over the past few weeks _had_ been enough to show her that knowing her sister’s records, having seen her on surveillance most of her life, did not mean that Miranda really _knew_ her.

 

In person—or over long-distance chat and messages, at least—Oriana was funny and wry, and kept pursuing jokes until she forced Miranda to laugh, or at least chuckle. She indulged in the worst sort of puns; she could speak at length about minute details of colony administration. The two of them had compatible musical tastes, but Oriana could both play and speak of music with a knowledge and passion that Miranda envied a little. Miranda herself had been technically skilled at piano before her father deemed she had accomplished enough and discontinued her lessons, but she had never had the sort of verve that went with being a truly gifted musician.

 

Evidently genes weren’t everything, after all.

 

So Miranda wasn’t sure how Oriana would respond—whether she would cry, or argue that Miranda shouldn’t go, or ask questions that Miranda wasn’t prepared to answer. She wasn’t sure that she could cope with any of these things just now, as they embarked on the most serious mission of her career.

 

She had put her life on the line before, multiple times, but this—

 

_I mentioned before that we were on a crucial mission. I still can’t say much about it. We know that hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake, however, maybe even millions. The time has come; Shepard and the rest of the team and I are about to start on the last phase of the mission. I won’t lie to you: it’s high-risk. Very high-risk. We’re bound to a place that no one has come back from before. It’s crucial that we do so, however, and there isn’t anyone else prepared to undertake this mission. Shepard thinks the team is ready, and I agree, but our enemies have forced our hand. It’s now or never._

_~~I can’t promise that I’m coming back~~ _

_~~I may not be able to~~ _

_In case I don’t see you again, I wanted you to know that_

 

Miranda stopped, lacing her fingers together as she stared at the words on the screen. If she didn’t come back, she would no longer be able to guard her sister. She wasn’t sure the Illusive Man would feel any obligation to do so. Her lips pressed together, thinning. He might, in fact, view Oriana as a potential Cerberus recruit, knowing full well the level of her intelligence. Oriana _wasn’t_ Miranda, though. She had options. Miranda did not want her to be driven into Cerberus’s ranks the way she herself had been, out of desperation.

 

It was true, after all. Cerberus had won and held her loyalty for all those years, close to two decades of her life. But she had turned to them because she had no good alternatives, and perhaps, back then, she had seen what she wanted to see. It was only quite recently, after all, that she had allowed herself to see beneath the surface. Oriana must not be forced into the same position.

 

But there was only so much Miranda could do. She didn’t have much. She kept most of her assets liquid—quantities of credits, in various accounts under various names. Those she held in her own name ought to pass to Oriana automatically in the event of her death. Most of her personal possessions were here in her cabin; there were a few more in a storage locker on Elysium, but such mementos would be of no significance to Oriana.

 

_In case I don’t see you again, I wanted you to know that I’m glad you’re safe and I’m glad we’ve started to get to know each other. I wish we could have more time together. I hope we will. I need to hear you play in person._

_But if anything does happen to me, there are certain accounts which will open to you automatically. Others you will need a passcode to access: you should contact Liara T’Soni on Illium for details. This is just a contingency, understand. I expect to write you again soon_.

 

Miranda hesitated again, rereading what she’d written. She wasn’t sure it seemed... adequate, somehow, but then again, there weren’t exactly models of what to say in a situation like this. She and Oriana were only just getting to know each other, still. Not strangers, but not precisely close friends.

 

_Take care of yourself, Ori. I have faith in you._

_Your sister,_

_Miranda_

It would have to do. Miranda pressed _send_ before she could think better of it.

 

#

 

Miranda left the strategy meeting and went to her weapons locker with her lips pressed tight together, exuding all the _leave me alone_ that she could. It worked; not even Jacob approached her as she checked her gear, clipped her pack of heat sinks to her belt, and examined her weapons one last time.

 

It wasn’t the strategy that was bothering her. The strategy was fine. They were quite possibly stranded on an alien base perilously close the galactic core, with no hope of rescue, but they had a vital mission to accomplish, and the strategy for accomplishing it was sound. Two fire teams, plus a technician infiltrating the narrow ventilation conduit, to move them on the first leg of their journey toward the core of the station. That was fine.

 

But it stung that Shepard had not given Miranda the leadership of the second team, as she’d assumed would be the case. Foolish of her, perhaps, considering how little ground time she’d seen on this mission. No, she shouldn’t have assumed. Perhaps she should have objected more strongly to Shepard’s insistence on relegating her primarily to shipboard duties. It had made sense, months ago, when Shepard had answered her questions and explained her logic, but the lack of ground team experience no doubt contributed to Shepard’s decision here. Miranda hadn’t even been surprised when Jack had voiced her own objections to Miranda’s leadership. That was only to be expected, where Jack was concerned. What she _hadn’t_ expected, and what had smarted more than she cared to think about, was the agreement she’d seen on several of the other faces in the room: the flicker in the drell’s dark eyes, Vakarian’s slight nod, Tali’Zorah’s more vigorous one. And then the fact that Shepard had agreed. Miranda would join Shepard’s own team, and Vakarian would lead the second team. She didn’t object to that, either. It was a sound choice. He’d kept his own team together on Omega for nearly two years; he could handle their team on the Collector Base for a few hours. In retrospect, really, there was something inevitable about the whole situation. Every one of them knew that Vakarian was Shepard’s most trusted lieutenant.

 

That didn’t hurt Miranda’s pride any less, however.

 

Now wasn’t the time for hurt pride, though. She needed to put her bruised feelings aside. They were irrelevant in the face of what was about to happen, and could only prove a distraction from the matter at hand. It was time to accomplish the mission they’d been preparing for these last months. They would end the Collector attacks on humanity today, or die trying. It was as simple as that.

 

“Lawson,” said Vakarian from behind her.

 

Miranda suppressed a sigh. She had no excuse for lingering at her locker. She was equipped and ready to go; she simply didn’t _want_ to turn and talk about it, and particularly not with him. She said, in clipped tones, “See to your own gear so we can get moving.”

 

“I have. You and I are the last to leave.”

 

That was true enough, she realized with a quick look to either side. The others must have assembled at the hatch already to divide into their separate teams. No escape, then, from whatever Vakarian intended to say.

 

He said, “It’s not about whether Shepard trusts you.”

 

Miranda’s face tightened into a frown. She smoothed her expression back to neutral before she turned to face Vakarian. “Shepard made the call. It’s her prerogative to assign any of us to do whatever she wishes. I’m sure she didn’t send you over her to see to my feelings.” Her feelings were immaterial, she reminded herself. It didn’t _matter_ whether Shepard trusted her or not; it mattered whether they accomplished their mission.

 

Vakarian met her cold stare with an unruffled expression. “Do you think she’d keep you at her back if she didn’t trust you? Shepard knows you’re good. Your combination of biotics and tech skills is an invaluable back-up for her. The rest of the team knows you’re good, too. It’s just that some of them don’t trust you to look out for them. Jack, Tali. It’s about keeping them focused so they don’t get distracted by that. It’s not about you.”

 

Miranda took a breath, trying to shake off her irritation and wounded pride. She could recognize the truth of what Vakarian was saying. She knew she did not have the best relationships with certain of the crew members. Miranda did not, as a general rule, make friends on the teams she led. She expected people to follow orders, and she expected her teams to succeed. It had never bothered her if they disliked her or called her names behind her back, as long as they accomplished what they set out to do.

 

This wasn’t her team, though. It was Shepard’s. Miranda had known that for some time, but today was the day that had become perfectly clear. It was Shepard’s team, and Shepard, somehow, developed a kind of rapport with each member of her team that Miranda never had. They were all prepared to lay down their lives for the mission, and for Shepard. Not for Miranda, and not for Cerberus. As a Cerberus recruiter, Miranda was certainly a failure, but she could hardly deny the faults in Cerberus’s history any more. As Shepard’s XO—well. They had a shot at pulling this thing off, and that was more than any other commander could have said.

 

Afterward—if there was an afterward—there might be time for Miranda to reflect, to consider Shepard and her unique brand of leadership. “I understand,” she said, more calmly. “Let’s stay focused on the mission.”

 

Vakarian nodded. “We’ll need to. Between you and me, you know our chances—”

 

“This is likely a one-way trip for some of us,” Miranda finished. It was true, no matter what she’d said to Shepard a few hours earlier, no matter what Shepard had said to them less than half an hour ago.

 

“Yeah. That’s my analysis.” He shrugged. “Shepard thinks we can pull it off. Let’s give it our best shot.”

 

“Inspiring,” Miranda said dryly. “It’s all we can do, I suppose.”

 

They fell into step together as they walked toward the exit from the armory. Vakarian cleared his throat before the door opened. “Lawson—watch her back for me, will you?”

 

Miranda raised her eyebrows, looking at him with mild surprise. “Of course.” She had no intention of losing Shepard now. “Lead them well.”

 

He let out a breath and nodded, mandibles twitching, as they left the armory and joined the rest of the team, gathered by the ship’s hatch armed to the teeth. Jacob leaned against the wall, arms crossed; Jack shifted her weight from foot the other. Everyone showed some signs of tension, aside from Krios and Samara, each of whom looked perfectly calm. Even the geth was twitching, Miranda noted with some amusement.

 

Shepard gave them a smile as they approached. “Nice of you to join us. Everyone set?” She was the picture of confidence now, her gaze bright and focused.

 

“Affirmative, Shepard,” Vakarian said, and Miranda simply nodded.

 

“Let’s get this done,” Shepard said.

 

She opened the hatch, and they strode out, one by one, into the rough, alien terrain of the Collector Base, with Shepard in the lead.


	14. Chapter 14

The Collector Base sent chills down Miranda’s spine.

 

She was not about to let it affect her demeanor, however. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, kept her body poised and her gun ready. Krios appeared as unflappable as ever, but Shepard, Miranda thought, might be feeling it too. Shepard and Vakarian had exchanged crisp nods as the team divided, with no more than a few brief words exchanged between them. Afterward, Miranda saw Shepard’s jaw tighten. Her throat worked once, and her expression settled into grim intensity, sharp eyes seeming to take everything in. 

 

And everything was... unsettling. The atmosphere inside the Collector Base was hot, and damp, a sickly tropical sort of heat that was making Miranda sweat in spite of the cooling functions of her armor. As they moved through the Base, the surface underfoot changed. Sometimes it gave underfoot, a slight yield that made her think, unpleasantly, of walking on flesh. At other times, they walked on something hard and shiny, made slippery with the moisture that seemed everywhere, a cloying film that condensed on the surface of Shepard’s armor and stuck to the soles of all their boots. Besides that, there was... a smell: a peculiar, fetid odor, not enough to overwhelm the senses, but enough to cling to the inside of the mouth and nostrils.

 

From the moment they stepped off the  Normandy , there was a constant droning in the background, the distant buzz of the Collectors and their seekers. When it rose in pitch and volume, Shepard said, “Get ready,” and within moments the fight was on them. 

 

Their path through the base started to seem dreamlike: minutes of walking in this alien environment, making their way into a massive hive, punctuated by brief bursts of combat. Miranda had not had to fight the Collectors directly before, since she’d stayed shipside at Horizon and the Collector ship. Still, they could be fought, just as any enemy could, and the three of them fought well together. Their combined biotics cut down most of their opponents with minimal need for weapons fire, and Krios’ long-range shooting took down many of the Collector drones before they even landed. It was hot, hard fighting, though, and Shepard was pushing them fast once she realized they needed to clear the vents for Tali’s passage. The quarian sounded increasingly worn and alarmed as she checked in. Vakarian seemed calm enough in his reports, though Miranda could hear the rattle of gunfire over the comm, and occasionally a scream from Jack or a roar from Grunt. Furious, not pained; the other team was holding its own.

 

They made it through, their team coming back together in a blaze of gunfire and explosions at the great doors that divided one sector of the base from the next. Once the doors had slammed shut, Miranda stood for a moment, breathing hard. No one appeared seriously injured. Medi-gel, water, and energy bars were passed around, as Shepard briefly stopped by each team member. 

 

“Nice work,” she said as she approached Miranda.

 

Miranda swallowed the last bite of her energy bar. “We both know that was only the first part, Shepard. There’s no telling how much further we have to go.”

 

Shepard put on a tight smile, looking over Miranda’s shoulder at the rest of the group. “We’ll be all right. EDI thinks if we go through one more section, we’ll reach some kind of central hub. Should be able to find transport there, she thinks. Let’s take a few minutes to regroup.” 

 

Miranda nodded. 

 

The space they had emerged into was large and ill-lit. It was even wetter than the way they’d come; Miranda could hear something dripping, somewhere, echoing in the peculiar acoustics of the space. She dutifully ate an energy bar and paced across the slightly slick flooring, trying to ignore how it squelched under her boots, looking upwards. The upper reaches of the chamber were crisscrossed with conduits, ranging in size from narrow cables to tubes big enough to fit a krogan through. For what purpose, Miranda wondered. They knew next to nothing of the Collectors’ goals, or even what they required for survival. Knowing that the Collectors had once been Protheans, and that they had been subjected to millennia of engineering, left a great number of questions that even Mordin hadn’t been able to answer. 

 

Her wandering feet had taken her away from the rest of the group. Miranda turned back to find that the others had drifted toward an installation of upright cylinders. They looked almost like the sleeping pods used for hot-bunking on ships with tight quarters, like the original  Normandy . They were occupied, Miranda saw as she approached, each tank holding a human body. Her steps quickened as her lips pressed together, thinking of the missing crew, the thousands of abducted colonists. Perhaps here they’d find answers, at last. 

 

The tank nearest her held a stranger, a young woman with short dark hair. Her eyes were closed as if sleeping—or dead—but Miranda thought she could detect a slight motion of the chest within. She looked up at the machinery on top of the tank, her eye trying to follow the twists of cabling that seemed to link the tank to the network of conduits overhead. This vast ship, those tubes, the kidnapped colonists—why? The team had been almost afraid to speculate. Here, now, she could see that this woman was alive, still, but how was she being held, and for what?

 

Her reverie was broken by a scream.

 

Miranda turned, startled, in the direction of the sound, and saw one of the other imprisoned colonists come to life, eyes wide and hands flailing within the clear liquid that filled her tank. The woman’s skin seemed to dissolve into streaks of red and black as she shrieked—conscious and aware enough to suffer.

 

“Get them out of there!” Shepard shouted. Miranda turned back to the young woman she’d been observing, only to find that she, too, was dissolving—more quietly than the other, apparently still unconscious, but her body was nonetheless disappearing as the fluid in the tank turned cloudy, flesh and bone alike stripping away. Miranda hesitated for a moment, horrified, but there was, she thought, no help for this woman now.

 

She turned and ran to the next cylinder, recognizing the white and black of a Cerberus uniform before she could identify the face. She gathered a fistful of dark energy and hurled it at the tank, warping and cracking the transparent surface. Fluid gushed out onto the floor. Miranda reached out to catch the crewman’s limp body as he tumbled out, eyes suddenly flying open and gasping for breath. She had to brace herself against his dead weight. She glanced around quickly to see the rest of the combat team breaking open the cylinders any way they could, the rescued crew stumbling or falling into their midst.

 

Hadley, she thought. The crewman she was supporting was Hadley. His legs were unsteady; Miranda lowered him to the ground as gently as she could and dashed to another cylinder, where Jacob was yanking open the catches that held it closed. Miranda grabbed the last one and between the two of them, they eased the shuddering woman—Goldstein—out and onto the floor. Miranda turned, but there seemed to be no one else in need of rescue. All the cylinders she could see were open, or broken, or—a few—filled with darkened, cloudy liquid, and nothing else. It had all happened in a matter of minutes.

 

Breathing carefully, Miranda scanned the crowd of  Normandy crew members and did a quick head count. The numbers appeared to match the crew complement, and she recognized the faces. Some of them managed to keep themselves upright, staggering or leaning against the cylinders that had once held them; others had sunk to the floor, shivering or coughing. Miranda looked up once more at the conduits above them. They still didn’t know understand the whole picture, but they knew the captured humans were somehow being... processed, reduced to some kind of fluid and piped elsewhere within the vast facility. For what? That, they still didn’t know.

 

She had never truly expected to recover the colonists alive, and could now be certain that would not happen. Miranda caught a glimpse of Shepard’s face, tight and set, as she listened to Dr. Chakwas. Even the usually composed doctor was shaken, her explanation halting. Miranda tried to regain her calm, slowing her breath and heartbeat. She could not keep her eyes from the vastness of the chamber above, though. This place was an obscenity. There was nothing more they could do for those lost—except make sure this would never happen again.

 

#

 

Miranda wasn’t surprised when Shepard selected Vakarian to accompany on her on the last leg of the mission, into the core of the station. That was precisely what she had assumed that Shepard would do.

 

She  was surprised, however, when Shepard called her name. She tried not to show it, but she was too fatigued to control her face entirely. Fighting through the conduits, freeing the crew, fighting again through the clouds of seeker swarms: it had all taken its toll. Despite what she had said earlier, Miranda knew she would not have been able to sustain the biotic shield that had protected Shepard’s team as long as they had needed; she had to admit to a grudging admiration for Jack’s raw strength and determination.

 

The crew was safe, at least. And now they had one last fight left, if all went well. 

 

After she stepped onto the platform that would carry them into the depths of the Collector Base, Miranda paid only half an ear to Shepard’s last words to the team, instead looking over their faces herself. Everyone looked resolved, even tired and sweaty as they were; every one of them, even cynical Massani, watched Shepard as she spoke. “Well said,” Miranda said once Shepard had finished. 

 

“This was unexpected,” Miranda added quietly as their platform rose into the air. The dislocation of force was very slight, forcing only a small adjustment of balance. Vakarian was staring upward at the network of conduits that still threaded their way through the vast base; Shepard faced the direction the platform was moving with her arms crossed and her chin raised. 

 

Shepard flicked a glance Miranda’s way in response to her remark. “What was?”

 

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I should have thought you’d want a different teammate. Tali’Zorah, perhaps.”

 

Shepard’s shoulders rose and fell. “We’re not sure what we’ll be facing, and you have a versatile skill set.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I think they can hold. It’s a defensible enough position.”

 

“As good as any we’ve seen in this place,” Vakarian added, turning to face them. “They’ve got a clear route to the  Normandy ’s current position, if they need to retreat.”

 

Shepard’s expression turned grim again. “How much further, do you suppose?” she asked.

 

“I can’t say I have a grasp of the principles of Collector construction,” Vakarian said. “But it looks to me as though the tubes are starting to converge.”

 

“They are leading to some kind of superstructure,” EDI put in, as Miranda watched a vast space open up around them. Ahead, a great dark bulk loomed. EDI continued, “It is emitting both organic and non-organic energy signatures. Given these readings, it must be massive.”

 

Massive, Miranda, thought, was an understatement.

 

#

 

This thing was ridiculous. Grotesque, and ridiculous.

 

Miranda ducked behind a partition and slammed a new heat sink into her pistol. Somewhere to her right, she could feel the shockwave Shepard discharged, knocking two of the Collectors right off the platform. This fight had gone on long enough. There was something absurd in the twisted, almost-human form the Reapers were constructing—until she considered that it was made, somehow, out of the essence of human beings, the very colonists they’d seen rendered down to suit the Reapers’ needs. Then it became an abomination, nothing more than a charnel house. If this was the Reapers’ warped form of reproduction, Miranda resented it all the more. Not new life so much as a grim parody, a sterile instrument of death.

 

“They’re opening up again!” Shepard shouted, meaning the injection tubes that attached the construct to the superstructure of the ship. Her voice sounded strong, hoarse from the hours they’d spent fighting their way through this hideous place.

 

Miranda rose from behind her cover, taking aim. There were just two tubes left. In her peripheral vision, she could see Shepard swapping out her shotgun for her assault rifle. On Miranda’s right, Vakarian was also readying his shot. “Left,” she called.

 

“Right,” Vakarian replied, acknowledging her call. Miranda took one last breath, steadied herself, and fired.

 

She heard Vakarian’s rifle crack, and the two tubes shattered at once. Miranda allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. They had done it; metal groaned and squealed as the last of the supports gave way. The construct was collapsing, falling into the vast void at the heart of the ship, and no Collectors were approaching at the moment. The three of them moved, cautiously, to the edge of the platform, peering over the edge. Miranda caught the barest glimpse of the dark bulk plummeting downwards and stepped back, satisfied. 

 

“Nicely done,” said Shepard, stepping away from the edge herself. “Ground team, what’s your status?”

 

For a moment there was only crackling over the comm. Then Krios’ voice came in through the static. “— holding, but they keep coming. A quick exit would be preferable.”

 

“Get back to the  Normandy .” Shepard bent over, locating the console built into one of the platforms they had been using for transport. “Joker, prep the engines. I’m about to overload this place and blow it sky high.”

 

“Roger that, Commander.” The pilot’s voice sounded thin, distracted. 

 

Shepard crouched down by the console, bringing up her omni-tool to access the instructions EDI had loaded there about starting a chain reaction. Vakarian joined her, leaning over her shoulder, pointing out something in the console’s guts. Miranda glanced around, surveying the scene, but couldn’t see any more Collectors incoming. 

 

Joker’s voice rattled out of the comm link again, pulling Miranda’s attention back toward Shepard. “Ah, Commander? I’ve got an incoming signal from the Illusive Man. EDI’s patching ‘er through.”

 

Shepard stilled, mid-action, and twisted around from her bent-over position. She looked up at Miranda, her eyebrows raised, and nodded. Miranda activated her omni-tool, frowning as she activated the projector, wondering what was so pressing that the Illusive Man needed to speak to them now, using all the resources it took to project a hologram into the base itself. Her chest tightened as her employer’s image appeared, large as life, hands clasped behind his back. “Shepard,” he said. “You’ve done the impossible.”

 

Shepard straightened, slowly. Her face was almost neutral, but the slight tightening around her eyes suggested wariness to Miranda. “I didn’t do it alone. I was part of a team. I wouldn’t have gotten here without everyone’s work and sacrifices.”

 

“Nevertheless,” the Illusive Man said. Shepard’s jaw clenched. The Illusive Man continued, “You did what you had to do, and you acquired the Collector Base. I’m looking at the schematics EDI uploaded. A timed radiation pulse would kill the remaining Collectors, but leave the machinery and technology intact.” One of his hands lifted, closing into a fist. Miranda blinked at the boldness of it, and at how Shepard’s eyes narrowed. She generally expected that the Illusive Man’s every move was planned and calculated, but did he really understand how Shepard would react to the gesture? 

 

He was still talking. “This is our chance, Shepard. They were building a Reaper. That knowledge, that framework, could save us.”

 

It was a good pitch, Miranda had to admit that, but Shepard wasn’t buying it. “They liquefied people, turned them into something horrible. We have to destroy the base.” She turned back to the console.

 

“Don’t be shortsighted.” The Illusive Man’s voice was warm, persuasive. “Our best chance against the Reapers is to turn their own resources against them.”

 

“I’m not so sure,” Miranda said, somewhat to her own surprise. She hadn’t meant to intervene in this conversation, but she couldn’t let it go. It was too easy to remember the faces of those who’d dissolved to create the thing that she, Shepard, and Vakarian had just destroyed. “Seeing it firsthand, using anything from this place seems like a betrayal.”

 

The Illusive Man’s response was swift. “If we ignore this opportunity,  that will be a betrayal. They were working directly with the Collectors. Who knows what information is buried there? This base is a gift. We can’t just destroy it.”

 

Shepard glanced over her shoulder, her mouth curling in contempt. “Y ou’re completely ruthless. The next thing I know, you’ll be wanting to grow your own Reaper.”

 

Vakarian chuckled. Even Miranda smiled, slightly, though the Illusive Man pressed on. “My goal was to save humanity from the Reapers, at any cost. I’ve never hidden that from you. Imagine how many lives could be saved if we keep this base intact and use its knowledge to thwart the Reapers. Imagine the lives that will be lost if we don’t.”

 

Shepard spoke just as quickly, over Miranda’s swift intake of breath. “ No matter what kind of technology they left behind, it’s not worth it.”

 

There was an edge to the Illusive Man’s voice now, as if he were desperate—or, more likely, angry. “Shepard, you died fighting for what you believed. I brought you back so you could keep fighting. Some would say what we did to you was going too far, but look what you’ve accomplished. I didn’t discard you because I knew your value. Don’t be so quick to discard this facility. Think of the potential.”

 

“We’ll fight and win without it. I won’t let fear compromise who I am.”  Shepard didn’t even spare the holographic image a glance over her shoulder, her hands busy at the console. That told Miranda more thoroughly than any words that the Illusive Man had lost. To tell the truth, he’d never had a chance of bending Shepard to his will. 

 

“Miranda! Do not let Shepard destroy the base!”

 

Miranda stared down at the image. Even through the layers of connection, the hologram’s cybernetic eyes glowed with his accustomed vigor. He fully expected her to obey. She glanced up; Vakarian was facing her, now, but Shepard hadn’t moved. She left her back to Miranda, and even though Vakarian was there, it was an act of trust. Miranda looked back to the Illusive Man, thought back over all the lost colonists, Jack’s scowl and David Archer’s abused body. She remembered Oriana’s smile, and all the bitterness she’d locked away for years came welling to the surface. “Or what?” she snapped. “You’ll replace me next?” Was that all she ever was to these men, a tool to be thrown away if she faltered at her task?

 

The Illusive Man usually gave little away, but she could see it now, the slight widening of his eyes and the shift of his jaw. He was shocked; he hadn’t expected this from her, perfect Miranda, who had accomplished every mission he’d ever set her, even the impossible ones. “I gave you an order, Miranda!”

 

“I noticed. Consider this my resignation,” Miranda said.  There was a snap to it, a sense of satisfaction, almost of victory. 

 

She expected some kind of reaction, but the Illusive Man only turned away from her, back toward Shepard. “ Shepard! Think about what’s at stake, about everything Cerberus has done for you! You—”

 

Miranda cut the connection. 

 

Her heart was beating faster. Had she really just done that? Had she really just... left Cerberus, turned her back on the Illusive Man and almost two decades of work? All the time and effort she had spent building up the organization, over. She almost felt lightheaded. She raised her chin as she looked at her companions, trying to ground herself. Shepard was still bent over the console, her brow furrowed in concentration. Vakarian, however, met Miranda’s eyes and gave her a short nod, mandibles flicking. She nodded back, setting her jaw and squaring her shoulders. 

 

For now, she’d take the victory. She knew already that it couldn’t last. No one just quit Cerberus. There was no severance package, no farewell party, no well-wishing for future employment, particularly not when one was as highly placed as Miranda was. 

 

... had been , she corrected herself. But there would be time enough to sort out her separation from Cerberus, to take new steps to protect Oriana as well as herself, once they were off this godforsaken base.

 

“There,” Shepard said, stepping back from the terminal she had been using. “Let’s move. We’ve got ten minutes before the reactor overloads and blows this whole station apart.”

 

Beneath them, the platform groaned. Shepard muttered, “What the—” as they all braced and drew their weapons.

 

Not done yet, Miranda thought, half giddy. She felt an urge to laugh out loud as the vast bulk of the human-Reaper construct thrust its head over the edge of the platform. Not done yet, not down yet—the stress must be getting to her.

 

“You have got to be kidding me!” Shepard shouted, setting off a burst of fire from her assault rifle. 

 

“Shepard,” Miranda called back, “you didn’t think this was going to be  easy , did you?”

 

Shepard was silent, but Vakarian let out a bark of laughter. “She’s got you there, Shepard.”

 

“Right—” Shepard rolled out of the path of the construct’s beam weapon. “—because it’s been so easy up til now.”

 

“The eyes and chest appear to be weak points,” Miranda noted as she ducked into cover herself.

 

“Gotta love aiming at the weapon while it’s charging up,” Vakarian said. 

 

“Thought you were the one with perfect timing.” Shepard popped out of cover to fire off a shot. Biotics weren’t going to do them a lot of good here; the thing had too much mass to manipulate easily, and Miranda and Shepard were both tired from long biotics use. Miranda could feel the burn, a hot ache at the base of her skull, around her amp socket, but she could feel a slight tingling in her arms and legs as well, testament to the toll biotics use had taken on her nervous system.

 

Shepard wasn’t quite done yet, though; she raised a hand, and Miranda could dimly feel the pull of her biotics. She couldn’t tell if it had any effect on their adversary, though. The shot Vakarian landed a moment later, in contrast, caused a visible recoil on the construct’s part.

 

It was grim work. Their enemy’s beam weapon took a few seconds to charge, and made an audible humming sound as it did, so it could be avoided if they were careful—but the thing’s constant movements made it difficult to hit the target points with any accuracy. Anything that hit its metallic chassis instead of one of the vulnerable points was a wasted shot. Their fatigue made it more difficult to concentrate. And all the while, Miranda ticked off the seconds in her head. Only so long to destroy this thing and escape the base. Only ten minutes, then nine, then eight...

 

At last the thing shuddered, while Shepard’s last shots connected. It lost its fumbling grip on the platform and began to fall, plummeting back into the abyss it had hauled itself out of. Miranda sighed in relief, brushing her hair away from her sweaty face. She could feel the rush of heated air shooting up from below as the crash of the Reaper structure set off some kind of reaction in the depths of the ship. There was no time to linger, though; Miranda started toward their exit even as Shepard called, “Let’s get moving, we need to go!”

 

At the same moment, the platform they stood on wobbled and began to shift. Miranda felt a sudden surge of alarm as her feet slipped against the smooth surface. 

 

“Move!” Shepard shouted.

 

All three of them started to run, back the way they’d come, legs burning with the effort. The platform bucked, starting to slant. Somehow the ship’s entire internal structure seemed to be falling apart. Vakarian braced himself to keep his footing, but Miranda was slipping again, her heels going out from under her as the platform pitched sharply. She grabbed at anything she could, but her hands slid with no purchase, her feet shot out into the void, she was falling—

 

She jerked to an abrupt halt, her whole body dangling over the edge as her shoulder protested the sudden stop. Miranda looked up to see that Shepard had an iron grip on her arm and her lip curved into a snarl. The moment froze; Miranda might have sworn that her heart stopped being as she and Shepard locked eyes. 

 

Then there was motion again, and Miranda felt grateful for every ounce of cybernetic strength they’d infused into Shepard’s skeleton and muscles as she hauled Miranda up. One good pull and she could scramble up a little herself, her whole body shaking with adrenalin. The platform pitched under them, its tilt reversing, and they both rolled across the surface. Miranda tried to control her roll, pushing herself up onto hands and knees as soon as she could, but everything was shaking and the platform continued to shift, tossing first one direction and then another, until Miranda felt herself falling again amid the deafening roar and everything went black— 

 

She came to with a sickening lurch, her head spinning before she recalled where she was and raised an arm to push away the loose rubble. Shepard appeared at her side, offering a hand. “Come on, we have to go!” Miranda took it, and Shepard yanked her upright once more, unceremoniously, her face set. Vakarian was there, too, upright, all of them battered but intact enough, and they started running even while Shepard called in to the  Normandy over the comm line. Miranda checked her omni-tool display as they ran; they hadn’t been out for more than a few seconds, fortunately, but they’d lost time, too much time—

 

EDI’s calm voice over the comm system directed them to a new location; the  Normandy was airborne, at least, had been able to move up to a closer pick-up point. Every muscle in Miranda’s body ached, and her own breathing was harsh in her ears, but she was not going to slow down now. Not with the seeker swarms behind them and the countdown on. Her earlier giddiness had already faded, and there was a yawning, burning fatigue waiting to catch up to her. She twisted, blindly firing at their pursuers, until her pistol grew hot in her hand. No time to change the heat sink now; she put her head down and ran, digging deep into the last of her reserves at the  Normandy loomed ahead of them.

 

She leaped into the hatch, her legs almost buckling under her as she landed in the confined space. Vakarian was only a few strides behind her. “Go on,” he called, “I’ll make sure of Shepard.”

 

“We’re not leaving without her,” Miranda said flatly. It would be a colossal irony at this stage of the game, and she wasn’t going to have it.

 

Vakarian nodded, slanting her a sharp-toothed turian smile. “On that we agree.”

 

She made her way into the CIC, too proud to lean on the anything as she went. “EDI—”

 

“Damage report and crew’s medical records have already been sent to your workstation, Operative Lawson,” EDI said.

 

Miranda paused mid-stride and instantly regretted it when her muscles began to stiffen. Momentum was the key, now. If she stopped moving, it would be hard to get started again. “I’m afraid I’m no longer a Cerberus Operative.”

 

“Executive Officer Lawson, then,” EDI said. “The  Normandy is able to traverse the mass relay and Jeff has our heading. May I suggest a medical evaluation for yourself?”

 

Miranda started to say that she would be all right—she healed quickly, another of her father’s gifts, so food and rest would suffice—but a sharp pain shooting up from her right foot stopped her. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said instead.

 

“The well-being of all my crew is important to me,” EDI said.

 

#

 

Two days later, Shepard shifted a little in her accustomed seat across from Miranda’s desk. “Thanks for the backup, back at the base,” she said. “I wasn’t sure...” She trailed off, rubbing one hand over her face.

 

Miranda rather thought that Shepard wouldn’t have let that slip if she weren’t so exhausted. If she were in another mood, she might have bristled, but she was stretched too thin herself, still shaken with the horror of what they’d been through, and stunned with the reality that they’d survived. She couldn’t blame Shepard for being uncertain of her loyalties. They had been divided long enough. And yet, Shepard had placed Miranda at her own back thoughout the mission, never showing any fear that Miranda might turn on her, or might be less than up to the task, no matter how little they had worked together in the field. So she said, enunciating carefully, “That place was an abomination. I won’t rule out the possibility that studying the Collectors’ tech could have had some benefits—” Shepard lifted her head at that, her eyes wary, but Miranda pressed on, “—but Cerberus was not the organization to do it.” She stopped and swallowed. The beliefs of her entire adult lifetime pressed on her, but Miranda Lawson was a realist, and she would not ignore the evidence. “Every bit of it would have to be handled carefully to avoid indoctrination. Everything would need to be approached with the utmost care and the highest standards of ethics, given the number of lives lost there. It was not a job that the Illusive Man could be trusted to do.” She stopped and took a breath.

 

Shepard stared at her a moment longer before smiling, a tired half-smile that nonetheless lit her eyes. “I’m glad we see eye to eye on that, Miranda.”

 

Miranda nodded. “So am I. That said... he’s your enemy now, Shepard.” And Miranda’s. The truth of it hung in the back of her mind: people didn’t just resign from Cerberus.

 

Shepard’s smile faded. “He always was. It’s just open warfare now.”

 

“He won’t stay still forever,” Miranda warned.

 

“I know,” Shepard said. “We’ll deal with him in time, as we need to. For now, we have a ship and crew to take care of.”

 

Miranda nodded again. “We do.” 

 

“How are we doing on repairs?” Shepard asked.

 

There was something soothing about returning to their normal work routine—even if the work to be done was anything but normal.  Miranda smiled and brought up the daily reports.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is... it. There may be an ME3-era epilogue, but I believe this concludes the meat of the story I intended to tell.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: 2186

It was almost the end of all things.

An evening out in the glittery casino could almost make a person forget—no doubt one of the reasons for the Silver Coast Casino’s popularity. But now Miranda kicked off her high-heeled shoes and propped her bare feet up on Shepard’s table, stretching her legs. There were a few drops of wine spilled on her dress, dark against the red fabric. She couldn’t much bring herself to care about it now. Might be the last time she wore this dress, or anything like it.

Shepard sank into the couch beside Miranda, propping her own feet up. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’ve had enough trouble-shooting space diva action for one night.”

“Mm,” said Miranda. Neither of them was truly drunk—overcharged biotic metabolisms saw too that—but she felt pleasantly relaxed for the moment. “I think we gave the casino about all they could handle.”

Shepard chuckled. “That we did.” After a moment, she said, more quietly, “You really didn’t know about the clone, Miranda?”

Miranda frowned, contemplating her toes. “I didn’t know, but...” she shrugged. “I can’t say I was surprised. It would be like the Illusive Man to have several plans in the works.”

Shepard grunted in response. A moment later, she said, “The clone said Cerberus grew her to be an organ bank. Spare parts.”

Miranda stole a look at her and found Shepard’s eyes distant, fixed on the bright lights of the Strip that were visible through the window, but not focused. Her own eyes narrowed. She said crisply, “That’s bullshit.”

Startled, Shepard turned toward her and blinked. Her eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

Miranda shook her head. “We grew new skin and organs for you directly. Much more efficient.”

“... oh.”

Shepard had never, ever cared to know any of the details of the resurrection process. Miranda had always found that vaguely nettlesome. In Shepard’s place, Miranda would have wanted to know the facts. Now she had to explain. “Growing an entire new human is far more difficult than growing some skin and organs, Shepard. There's no reason to do that. It’s a waste of resources. The clone was misinformed.”

“Misinformed.” Shepard’s eyes returned to the window. “Yeah, I could believe that. Brooks was... I think Brooks told her what she wanted her to know.”

Miranda made a face. She had interacted with the erstwhile Maya Brooks, back when she’d been going by Hope Lilium and had been handing Miranda the crew dossiers. Evidently she’d had her fingers in more than one cell. “She turned out to be far more devious than I gave her credit for.”

Shepard nodded. She’d gone distant again, a frown starting to crease her brow, but she was still twisted to face Miranda, resting one elbow on the back of the couch. After a moment, she asked, “Miranda?”

“Yes?”

“What would you have done if you couldn't bring me back?”

Miranda thought back over it. She’s spent two years of her life on the Lazarus Project. They’d had to pioneer new science to resurrect Shepard, new techniques that might never come into wider use, buried with the records and what was left of Lazarus Station. Another loss, though that one belonged more to Wilson and the Shadow Broker than to Cerberus. Cerberus had more than enough blood on its hands, though. There had been all the operations Shepard uncovered in the past, the ones Miranda herself had seen the results of in her time on the _Normandy_ , and all the ones she’d seen since. Cerberus had been pursuing Miranda since Shepard had chosen to take the fall for Bahak, but Miranda had done damage to them in turn, when she could. She knew access codes, locations, personnel—more than even the Illusive Man had supposed, she’d guess. Cerberus had set her father on her, too, making it all too clear that Cerberus had never turned its back on Henry Lawson. She wondered how many lies the Illusive Man had told to him. As many as he’d told Miranda? As it turned out, she’d only traded in her father for a more manipulative master.

But whatever else Cerberus had done, they’d given her the resources and the opportunity to bring Shepard back. Because of that, the galaxy still had the barest chance to survive.

Because of that, Miranda was free. Even if these were the last months of her life, even if she’d spent most of it on the run— she still had that.

Shepard’s expression was turning worried. Fearing she’d been silent too long, Miranda told the truth: “I was always confident we could.”

A smile tugged at Shepard’s mouth. “Always sure of yourself,” she murmured.

Miranda shrugged more nonchalantly than she felt.

“But what if you hadn’t?” Shepard pressed.

Miranda tilted her head, considering. “The clone was probably the contingency plan for that eventuality. In case we needed to prepare an impostor. But it wasn't my project.” She made a wry smile. “You know Cerberus.”

“Yes, I do,” Shepard muttered.

“We compartmentalized knowledge,” Miranda continued. “I wasn’t certain the project existed. I certainly didn’t know the details.”

Shepard nodded and sat up, looking earnest. “Miranda, I wanted to say I appreciate all you’ve done—”

“Shepard. Please.” Miranda held up a hand. “You’re not getting sentimental, are you?”

Shepard’s smile was a little tight. “You know me.”

Miranda clicked her tongue. “Soft. Save it for Vakarian.”

Shepard burst out laughing, long enough and hard enough that Miranda had to laugh in turn, pleased with herself for breaking the seriousness of the moment. She kept smiling as Shepard’s laughter faded and she rested her head against the back of the couch. Miranda leaned back herself, sighing. “There’s no need for thanks, Shepard. I owe you as much.”

“Let’s call it even,” Shepard said.

“It’s a deal,” Miranda said, extending her hand, and they shook on it.


End file.
